


Running into Luck

by spotlightonmringenue



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Alive John, Alive Root, Flashbacks, Friends to Lovers, Harold POV, John POV, Light Angst, M/M, Mutual Pining, Post-Canon Fix-It, Post-Return Zero, Post-Season/Series 05 Finale, Slow Burn, light fluff
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-29
Updated: 2020-06-04
Packaged: 2021-02-28 19:28:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 24,021
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23372449
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spotlightonmringenue/pseuds/spotlightonmringenue
Summary: “Grace. Lives in Italy,” John sighs, feeling his blinking interval decrease. “His second chance - one that he’ll only take if he thinks there’s not a life here. The Machine has to stay dead. I have to stay dead.”He doesn’t think the words are convincing enough, Joey’s stare still confused and argumentative while remaining silent. The bleach-white color of the hospital room starts to warp and John manages to speak again.“Because he would do the same for me.”Or: A fix-it fic where Harold is kept in the dark about John's survival and has to figure out how to live without him.
Relationships: Bear (Person of Interest) & Everyone, Harold Finch & Grace Hendricks, Harold Finch/John Reese, John Reese & Everyone, Root | Samantha Groves/Sameen Shaw
Comments: 45
Kudos: 86





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I think this’ll be around 22k by the time it’s done, until then I’ll update weekly and add tags as I go. Enjoy.

John doesn’t feel the first two until he’s hit by the next four, bullets causing wounds that soak his shirt in red. Red is all he can see and hear, slumped against the satellite access boxes and so close to death on yet another rooftop.

It should be fine if he closes his eyes for a minute. Harold’s safe, and he thinks the computer chimed a moment ago, meaning that it uploaded and The Machine is now responsible for the fate of the world.

John’s not worried. Something tells him she’ll figure it out.

“Let’s move him. T-minus 4 and counting,” someone says, too close to his ear. John lifts his gun, prepared to finish the job — once he remembers what it is — only for the weapon to be snatched out of his weak grip, fingers closing around air and tacky blood.

“Sorry, John. Can’t have you doing anything drastic.” 

It sounds like Harper.

===

John’s first thought when he opens his eyes to find Logan Pierce at the end of his bed is that something has gone horribly wrong. He knew he was going to hell, but this is a little too much.

“Up and at ‘em, Sleeping Beauty.”

John lets his eyes close. He’s not in the mood to cooperate any time soon.

“We saved your life. Don’t we get a little thanks?”

“I don’t remember asking you to,” John says, a cough scratching at the inside of his throat as he fights to keep it down. Logan’s footsteps slide toward him, then a straw pokes at his mouth until he opens his eyes to glare, taking a reluctant drink when his dark look just bounces off the billionaire.

“That’s what I thought. Don’t worry, the first two rescues are free of charge. What are friends for?”

“Talk slower,” John says, trying to summon the energy to look down and find out why there are knives buried in his chest.

“Easy,” Logan says, a hand on John’s shoulder keeping him down. That gets a quiet growl, but John finds that he can’t lift his head or counter the pressure of the light touch. It’s aggravating and exhausting. His head swims as Logan tries a smile. “You were almost shot to death and obliterated by a warship missile, John, try to relax. Thanks to a little planning by the Machine, we had paramedics and an ambulance full of donated blood waiting on the ground floor.”

“You were late,” John chides.

“No. You had to upload the Machine undisturbed, she was very clear about that.”

“She?”

“Well, I’m not calling her ‘it’. She’s far too interesting to be anything but an enigmatic woman.”

“You got an Oedipus complex, Pierce?”

“Uh oh, did Harold set you loose in the library again? Sounds like someone got into the classics.”

John’s hand twitches against the blanket and his head finally listens to commands, letting him turn to stare at Logan. 

“Finch. Did he get to a hospital?”

“Your elusive boss? Oh, he’s fine. See, he was shot once while you were shot…” Logan counts on his fingers and ends up using both hands. “Seven times, I believe? It was touch and go for a while, even with all the Machine’s hard work, and we didn’t want to call him in case you died anyway.”

John’s jaw tightens and the billionaire’s speech speeds up. 

“You’re all good though, stable and healing. I’ll give Harold a call the next time your pain meds take you under, see if he’s able to drag himself over here. Availability sent him to a different emergency hospital but we can organize a transfer if you know what I mean.” Logan winks.

“He doesn’t know I’m alive.”

“Nope. I’m sure it’ll be one of the best phone calls he’s ever gotten.”

John’s hand relaxes on the bed, his neck aching as he tries to lay flat again. He hears Logan talking about injury extent and recovery time, trying to bore John to death. It’s almost working. He thinks about Harold leaving the rooftop, trusting John and the Machine to finish the job. He thinks about getting a normal life, about what Harold might do if he believes that Samaritan and the Machine would destroy each other permanently. No more numbers. There are very few people who can understand what they’ve been through.

“Shaw. Fusco.”

“The detective is fine too, though he checked in somewhere else with a nasty stab wound. Ms. Sameen thinks she’s sneaky but we caught her visiting while he was stuck in bed. She likes to lurk in the camera’s shadows.”

“Has she visited Finch?”

“No, but he hasn’t reached out and you know he won’t be found unless he wants to be found. We only know where he is because I’m a champion at hide and seek.”  
John feels his irritation fading to a murky disinterest. 

“You’ve been busy. How long was I down?”

Logan turns on his heel, a shiny shoe squeaking against the floor as he paces to the end of John’s bed. “A whole week. They kept you under because you kept dropping. Like I said, a rollercoaster.”

What would Harold do? No Machine, no contact with his friends. He’s not the kind of person who can be alone.

Grace.

“Don’t call him.” John can feel the cotton filling in his brain, blinking to focus as he stares down at the IV in his arm and sees its connection to a morphine pump. A dispense button is hanging next to the bed, swinging as though it was just released. The bastard just drugged him back to sleep.

“Oh, you’re a fighter. What was that?”

“Don’t call Finch.” Logan still looks lost, lips pursed as he leans against the foot board of the bed. “Harold,” John reminds him.

“Um, any reason why? The Machine said to-”

“Please.” John is breathing too hard, trying to stay awake long enough to get the promise, but Logan is still frowning in disagreement as John’s eyes fall closed and he can’t remember why he wanted to be awake in the first place.

===

_ October 2014 _

_Samaritan isn’t giving an inch. He’s been figuring out simulations to run and factors to consider all night, the afternoon sun stretching across the floor of the loft. He thinks about the first time Nathan showed the room to him, the reaching light of a setting sun through the windows making it appear to be an idyllic space for his friend. The bolt on the door clicks and Harold looks up, believing for a moment that his very thoughts have roused the dead. John walks through it instead, eyes finding Harold before his expression relaxes, taking in the situation with a glance._

_Harold is exhausted but there’s still work to be done, so he greets John and returns to the simulation programming. His partner is silent until a duffel drops on the table in front of him and Harold’s fingers pause over the keys._

_“You don’t intend to keep those here, I hope?”_

_“Got it in one,” John says, taking the weapons apart before he starts to store them in the armored credenza behind the couch. “Don’t worry, it’s just an emergency stash.”_

_“I’m afraid to ask how many others you’ve hidden around the city.”_

_“I can make a list.”_

_“No, thank you. You should know that there’s no number today, which means the evening is yours, Mr. Reese.”_

_Harold intends to spend his day in the safe house, going out periodically to see if any payphones demand his attention. Ever since Samaritan took over, the numbers have almost disappeared and an off day isn’t unusual. Troubling, but not as abnormal as it used to be._

_“I know.” John sits down beside him, producing a book from the cleared duffel and flipping to a tabbed page. Harold notices that the chair the man is sitting in has been switched. It’s a well-cushioned seat that doesn’t match the others and allows John his current reclined state._

_“Did you rearrange my furniture?”_

_John smiles, turning the page and raising the book to block his face from sight. Harold doesn’t really care but he feigns offense, typing with harsh clicks of the keyboard._

===

_A twinge in Harold’s spine wakes him up, noticing that a single lamp has been turned on while the rest of the loft has gone dark. One eye opens to find John, the shoulders of a large jacket settling over Harold as he remains slumped against the table’s surface, laptop moved out of his way._

_“I’ll take this shift, Finch. Get some rest.”_

_A hand pauses on Harold’s neck, warmth creeping in until his muscles relax and cease to ache, allowing him the chance to return to sleep. He’s safe._

===

November 26th, 2016

Harold wakes up in a cold sweat, gasping hard enough that it strains the hole in his side. It doesn’t feel properly stitched but the doctor assures him that it’s healing fine, inside and out. Another nurse comes in to check on him now, adjusting the heart monitor and asking if he needs anything before retreating back into the hallway. He turns on the light in the private room, running a hand over his face as he hears John’s speech on the rooftop like it’s playing in surround sound. Another nightmare in the arsenal.

He’s being discharged in the morning and if he’s a little sleep-deprived when it takes place, it’s not like anyone will call him out. Harold keeps his eyes focused on the ceiling - thinking about art, and literature, and anything but computers.

===

John tries to sit up again, and even though he’s able enough to manage getting his shoulders an inch off the sheets, the pain rolls through him as he tries to shift his weight. He lands hard against the injured arm, groaning through his teeth. A knock on the door gets his attention but not his gaze, eyes staying shut to process the spasms his back muscles have developed.

“You tried to escape, didn’t you?”

John grunts, listening as Joey walks to the side of his bed and pulls up a chair. 

“I just wanted to sit up.”

“They’ll come in to help you with that later,” the soldier says, giving John a polite smile as he manages to look over. “Besides the swiss cheese thing, how are you doing?”

“You’re better company than Pierce.”

Joey nods in sympathy. 

“Sorry about the weird wake-up call. He told you what happened, right?”

“I think so. It was hard to tell when real information was mixed in with everything else.”

“Okay, I’ll be brief. The Machine told us where and how to save you, so we did. She’s back, by the way, from the satellite. Kicked evil AI ass.”

John relaxes into the bed, a tension that he didn’t know was there diffusing as he hears confirmation that it worked. He’s okay with being immobile for a few days if it means that they’re safe.

“Good to know.”

“Yeah,” Joey says, scrubbing a hand over his neck. “What you did was impressive, though. I thought you were crazy before but that was a whole other level.” He grins. “Pia called me reckless and I was just part of the B Team.”

“Well, she’s probably right.”

Joey tells him about their rotating schedule to check on him and make sure that the remaining dregs of Decima don’t track down his new cover. He listens as well as he can while trying to manage his pain, figuring out a way to move sooner than planned. When John asks about Harold, the soldier sighs.

“He’s good, checked out today according to Logan.”

“He wasn’t called, right?”

Joey looks worried, watching John’s fist twitch on the blanket before he leans forward, bracing on his own knees. 

“I’m supposed to talk to you about that.”

John knows why they’re worried. He also knows that it’ll make sense once he explains, if they don’t already know about Grace. 

“Okay.”

“Let’s start with shoe on the other foot. Wouldn’t you be pissed if you thought he was dead and he was really alive? Wouldn’t it kill you?”

“It would.” Joey watches him, the gold of his wedding ring drawing John’s gaze as he talks. “He would be hurt if he knew I was alive and let him believe I was dead. He’s lost people before,” John says, swallowing around a deeper explanation. Joey doesn’t need that to make the right decision. “The difference is that if our situation was reversed, I would have nothing. The numbers are important but I don’t like my job unless Finch is part of the equation. Working with him to save people is my purpose.” 

John’s right side flares up in sharp agony, and when he can breathe again, he finds his hand trembling around the controller that sends his pain medication rushing in. He sinks into the bed, not ready to fall asleep. Joey is polite enough to ignore the moment of weakness. 

“That’s not true for Finch?” he asks.

“Harold has a kind and innocent woman who loves him.” John raises an eyebrow at the soldier. “Sound familiar?”

Joey leans back with the flicker of a smile, propping his elbow on the chair to rest against his fist. 

“Sure. What’s her name?”

“Grace. Lives in Italy,” John sighs, feeling his blinking interval decrease. “His second chance - one that he’ll only take if he thinks there’s not a life here. The Machine has to stay dead. I have to stay dead.”

He doesn’t think the words are convincing enough, Joey’s remaining silent and letting his stare speak to his confusion. The bleach-white color of the hospital room starts to warp and John manages a muttered explanation.

“Because he would do the same for me.”


	2. Chapter 2

December 5th, 2016

Harold watches Gianni disappear into the back room, searching for a jacket that he found a while back, his shouted reassurance about its excellence fading as he goes further into his shop. There’s a lot that Harold’s missed while running from Samaritan, and he’s still getting used to coming back to certain luxuries. He goes on walks, but every SUV makes him jump and every mysterious stranger has him checking his phone for bluejacking. When he wanders through back alleys to remain away from cameras, he often ends up tight spaces, his nerves fried by the time he reaches his destination.

It's all new surroundings which doesn't help with his worries, but staying in New York was impossible. Everyplace was somewhere they’d been before, the sights something he’d seen before, except he had John with him. His memory was in every step Harold took outside of the apartment. He thought it was bad after Nathan was gone but there’s not a street in the city he didn’t mention while helping John with surveillance. When he tries, he can almost remember their conversations word for word. 

But walking around places they never went together is only slightly less agonizing. As no memory of John surges up to fill his mind, the instant of relief is followed by remembering him anyway.

For now, he just wants a suit. A homecoming. He pulls out his phone, the dialer opening as his fingers twitch, Lionel’s number memorized and waiting to be typed in. The detective is recovering, based on the records Harold got into before leaving New York, and he knows that Sameen still meets him sometimes. He saw her speaking into a pay phone the other day and had to stop tailing her as he thought of Root’s voice – thought of the Machine telling him about death.

A cry of eureka comes from behind the curtain and he hears Gianni applauding the fabric and texture as his footsteps return. The device is back in Harold’s pocket by the time the curtain parts, app closed and screen untouched.

It’s a wonderful jacket.

===

They haven’t called Harold yet, promising to give John a recovery period that they hope will change his mind.

They really don’t know him well. 

John sits down at the diner, asked if his usual guest will be joining him. He shakes his head no and the waitress looks disappointed, wandering away to deliver to a waiting table. The phone buzzes in his pocket and John considers ignoring it, but the last time he tried, Pierce joined him on his walk for the day. He’s not doing that again.

“You were shot seven times," Harper says, not giving him a chance to greet her. One of the healing divots of skin pulls as he leans forward to grab the salt. 

“I remember the feeling.”

“Which means that when the doctor advises something, it’s gospel.”

“Your point?”

“Short walks to get your blood moving. Twice a day, close to home.”

“Yeah.”

“You’ve been gone for five hours and somehow ended up in a diner across town.” 

John smiles as he lifts his coffee to blow the steam away and take a sip. It’s not his favorite brew, and with an unexpected tug of nostalgia, he remembers that the Lyric Diner is safe to visit again with no Samaritan around to make a dangerous connection and track them down. That place had great coffee. He hears Harper sigh when he thanks his waitress for the breakfast plate, cutting into the food but waiting to eat until she decides to hang up on him.

“That’s the second time this week,” she says. “We can’t help unless you let us help but like it or not, we’re your team now and that means we have to work together.”

“I said you could call me if you need me. Until then, I can take care of myself.”

“Can you?”

John stares at the table, knowing that the diner is full of life. There’s a toddler in the booth behind him, a smoker outside the window, and an old woman paying with cash near the front. Steam wafts from his coffee and his plate, its pattern matching the uneven clink of utensils scraping against ceramic. Someone drops a quarter and curses under their breath, knees cracking as they bend down to retrieve it.

All he can smell is pressed wool, stale books, and green tea.

“Come back when you’re ready to work with us, John.”

===

_  
June 2014  
_

_**Text Message Received** _

_**3:04 pm -- Chelsea Square Restaurant, 8** _

_Harold knows the number. He read all the files, memorized the new information that Root handed out before everyone went separate ways. The sender is John - with a foolish idea - but Harold acknowledges that and is still sitting in a booth at the appointed time, exhaling in tense relief as his friend slides into a seat across the table._

_“Avoiding buzzwords is important, if we’re going to talk,” Harold starts._

_“I’m aware, Professor. You remember my previous job.”_

_“Oh, distinctly. I’m just saying it won’t kill us to use some discretion.”_

_John leans back with a mild look of disapproval._

_“I think the k-word is off limits.”_

_“Very funny, Detective. You called me here for a reason, I hope?”_

_“Well, that depends. What’s a good enough reason to justify meeting an old friend?”_

_Harold sees haunted shadows under John’s eyes, likely from being on Homicide. They used to arrive before the murders, and now he’s forced to face the physical consequences of their inaction against Samaritan every day. John’s blinking slows when the waitress pours the coffee, eyes locked on the cup until he can get a drink, even though Harold knows it’s not his favorite. He looks sad. Like regret is weighing on him more than anything - like he wishes he had killed the senator just to give them a fighting chance, Harold’s conscience be damned._

_It’s all Harold’s fault, really. Some days, when he’s reading about killers in the news instead of grading papers, he wonders if his morals were worth anything. He wonders if he shouldn’t have just trusted the Machine. Sameen, Root, probably John too must blame him for what happened, what failed to happen. They must resent him, at least a little-_

_“It’s good to see you again, Harold.”_

_His friend smiles and the shadows fade, shoulders relaxing as they watch each other over warm drinks._

_“Yes. You as well, John.”_

===

December 10th, 2016

Harold’s watched Grace from across a plaza for years, so this moment feels familiar in a strange way. There are flashes of memory, of the life he had before Team Machine, unknown and unpursued by Decima and the CIA. Grace seems happy, and there are charming moments where she’ll step back to view the bigger picture, smiling in the sun as she dives forward to work again. 

Harold’s leg starts to ache from standing still for so long.

He’s spent over five years running from Grace. It takes all of his effort just to take the first step closer, allowing himself the right to approach her. She deserves better than his lies, better than his attempt to protect her with distance. It didn’t work, really. Not that letting people close worked out well for him either. 

Harold smells coffee and has to stop, sitting in the nearest metal chair and massaging his knee. He takes deep breaths, wishing he could run a hand over Bear’s fur and take a moment of solace out of this mess he’s made for himself. 

But life doesn’t slow down and Grace deserves the truth. It’s that thought propelling him forward, stopping just out of sight to admire her once again - honestly concerned that as much as she loved him, she could slap him on sight and walk away. Harold wouldn’t even be surprised. He would try again another day but he’d understand.

He walks close enough to be seen as she turns to get more paint on the brush.

===

John starts working as Harper’s back-up detail, lingering in the shadows while she does the bulk of surveillance, getting jobs for cover identities and slipping into restricted areas. John loses her once or twice but she keeps him on the line if she’s out of sight.

They don’t call Harold.

Logan gets him a new apartment. John’s stuff is moved out with Joey’s help and he doesn’t pity John when there’s only one box of clothes and two bags of weapons. Sameen must have swept the place for Bear’s stuff a while ago, dust settled on the spot where the dog bed used to stay. John considers stealing Bear – again - but he has a feeling that Sameen would maim Lionel for losing track of him. She’s great at holding a grudge. It’s one of the reasons he doesn’t reach out to either of them, the other problem being that they would convince him to bring Harold back. Logan tries to persuade him and they aren’t even friends in John’s mind. Associates, maybe.

Or warden and prisoner, based on the billionaire’s recent behavior. When the hand claps onto John’s shoulder at the park, he’s ready to fire at the knees, stopped only by the inhale that means an arrogant prodigy is about to talk louder than usual.

“Is this where you go when you wander off, John?”

“You could have just called, Pierce.” He stares at the hand until it removes itself. “What do you want?” 

Mr. Han raises an eyebrow at his annoyed tone. John is usually calm and pleasant when he gets a chance to come here, and he’s never had anyone just show up like this.

“To spend some time together, man! There’s this great restaurant a block away, opened a week ago. I heard they make a killer fish platter.”

“No thanks.”

Logan huffs a laugh, sitting down on the scrap of bench to John’s left and nudging with his hip. John doesn’t budge. 

“Come on, don’t you want to bond with your boss?”

“Does anyone?” John asks.

Han chuckles, face turning to look toward the newcomer. 

“So, you’re the boss. Am I finally meeting Mr. Finch?” 

While John quiets in surprised denial, Logan drops into the conversation again. 

“Not quite. John quit working there and I offered him a position at my company. I value talent,” he says, sending John a sly grin as his frown darkens. Logan likes to bring up how John chose to avoid Harold when he’s making an argument to change the older man’s mind. “But I’m starving, so I guess I’ll head out. Can’t say I didn’t try,” the billionaire sighs, arms slapping back to his side after he gives John an aborted salute and saunters away.

His shoulders relax as Pierce disappears from sight and John’s exhale communicates that to Han, who doesn’t bother hiding a smile. It’s not that he hates Pierce - most of the time - but cooperating with him is mind-numbing after working with professionals like Sameen and Harold. He misses the days where it could just be quiet over the comms, keeping each other company without a word. Pierce has so many words.

“If you ask me, you should get your old job back.” Han speaks his turn and puts John in checkmate. The encounter distracted him to the predicament of the board.

“Why do you say that?”

“When you spoke about him, this Mr. Finch, I could tell you were smiling.”

John sets up the board again when Han gestures that they can play again, mentally marking his defeat. 

“It’s not really an option anymore. Closed door and all that.”

Han leans forward, forearms pressed against the table. 

“Our job is one of the few things in life we get to enjoy to the fullest. What’s the point of having one that you don’t like?”

John thinks about it, the chill of the month seeping into him more than it did before. He starts the game again. 

“Soldier A4 to A5.”


	3. Chapter 3

_ July 2012 _

_The phone barely has a moment to ring before Harold's answered it._

_“Ah, Detective Carter. Would you care to join us for your lunch break? We were thinking a picnic would be nice.”_

_“The FBI has a task force dedicated to tracking John down and your idea of fun is sandwiches in the park?”_

_Harold pauses, glancing up at the man in question who’s waiting by the door with dog leash in hand._

_“Which answer would bring you the most comfort?”_

_The thrum of the police station buzzes through the speaker and into the library. Carter is quiet for a while._

_“Fine, I’ll be there in 20. Which one of you cooks, anyway?”_

_“Our diet consists of take-out and hotel menus for a good reason. We’ll be picking up food on the way.”_

_“I’ll ask Fusco if he’s available. Just so you know, you’ve got a strange definition of homemade picnics,” Carter says, hanging up as Harold stands to push in his chair. She does show up on time and after they’ve eaten, she tries explaining to him that eating fruit will balance her coffee intake for the day._

_“I’m not sure that checks out, Detective, but I’ll take your word for it.”_

_Fusco leans forward, an unnecessary sense of conversation privacy._

_“Let’s forget about eating habits for a second. Where the hell have you been lately? You used to do solo missions when Wonderboy was busy but now it’s like you’re attached at the hip if we see you at all.”_

_They watch John, in sight and out of hearing range as he tosses the tennis ball for Bear._

_“I was abducted, Detective. Root is still out there, doing things that it would probably be better if we didn’t know the half of.”_

_“What, this is his idea of being your bodyguard? Is the dog not working for you?”_

_“A dog can’t fire a gun and Root can. The odds aren’t exactly even.”_

_“As well trained as that beast is, I’d be surprised if he couldn’t figure it out.” Fusco goes back to eating as Harold’s eyebrows flick up, not expressly disagreeing with him._

_“I guess that means you’ve hired yourself a damn good guardian angel,” Carter says, tilting her head to watch him across the blanket. “Or devil, if someone gets on his bad side.”_

_“I believe the term ‘friend’ can be used in this situation,” Harold says, turning to look again. John crouches down to encourage Bear’s excitement upon returning the ball. “He makes a very good friend.”_

===

January 1st, 2017

She was kind about it. 

Grace still loves him, of course she does, but trusting someone with your whole heart and finding out that they hid things from you - up to and including their last name - can be devastating. 

He’d almost forgotten the power of a hug from Grace, the genuine warmth that she provides when she uses contact to comfort him. She hugged him first, and it continues to be her tradition upon seeing him, her hands trembling just a touch before they lay against Harold’s back. When he asked, she told him it was everyone’s dream, to have a person they love in their arms again. Harold agrees.

Grace offered friendship, a chance to rebuild, making no promises for anything more. Harold can tell that she’s worried he’ll disappear again so they have lunch when she’s free and he takes her to some exhibits that have members-only access. It’s nice being around her again. Harold was suffocated by people chasing him with bad intentions for so long that he’d forgotten just how kind people could be. He smiles for the first time in a while when she catches a fly in her apartment and lets it go outside. 

He admires her paintings as he always has and she gets a suspicious look on her face, the epiphany coming just this morning.

“You got magazine companies to buy my work, didn’t you?”

===

John is across the street, listening through Fusco’s bluejacked phone as he talks with an officer at the bar. There’s a small and shadowy figure cutting through the crowd and it comes to rest on the stool next to the detective, ordering a beer.

“Shaw, why am I not surprised? Happy New Year.”

“Thanks, Fusco.”

He glances at the floor behind him. 

“Am I dog-sitting again?”

“No, he’s back at my place with a treat the size of his face.” Sameen smiles when it gets a chuckle out of Fusco. “Anything new with you?”

“Enjoying the holidays, myself. If you’re talking about our mutual friends, I’ve got nothing.”

Sameen nods as a similar response, getting through half the glass before talking again. 

“Your kid?”

“He’s good, staying with his mother this week.” Fusco tips back his own glass but keeps watching her. “We don’t have to small talk like this. I get it, just wanting company today.” He can see she's considering it. Fusco orders another round for them both, watching her smile a little as it’s set down.

“To a very sane new year,” Sameen says, raising her glass for cheers as John turns, walking back down the crowded street. When he gets called in on his way home, John holds back a sigh, going to Logan’s Lair, as he insists it be called. It’s a warehouse above a nightclub that he owns, and John can’t avoid being splashed by the drinks of a few rabid partygoers on the way upstairs, reminding himself to charge the cleaning bill to one of Logan's cards.

When he arrives, all three members of his new team are seated around champagne and Scrabble, calling for him to join.

“I thought you called for a job,” John mutters.

“I did,” Logan says, standing to put a hand on his back and push him toward the others. “Your job is to relax. It’s a holiday, let loose.”

Logan grins and John can feel the migraine stretch across his skull as he resists the urge to shoot something. 

“I’m going home now.”

“Ah, wait. We need to talk, John.” Logan’s voice sounds serious enough for him to turn around, and he notices that they’re all watching him.

“About what?”

“You miss your friends. Went to see them only to find that they’re doing okay, sharing drinks and smiling again.” Logan tilts his head, leaning back against the arm of the couch as John clenches his fist. “They’re healing from a loss – two, actually - and you’re just getting worse.” Harper makes a point of clearing her throat and the billionaire’s voice gets less blasé about John's discomfort. “Sit down. Please.” He gestures to the couch and John takes a seat, staring at the letters on Logan’s tile rack.

“Remind me again why you don’t just tell them,” Harper says, starting to pour a glass before staring at John and reaching into a cooler beside her to grab a beer instead.

“They’ll try to talk him into bringing Harold back,” Joey answers, looking to John, who nods in confirmation.

“Okay - remind me why we aren’t telling Harold.”

Logan shifts to sit on the arm of her chair and props up his leg, leaning against his inner knee. 

“Do you listen to anything we say? At any time?” Harper just laughs at him. “Don't know why I asked. Well, as much as we don’t agree with the decision, we aren’t calling Harold because he has Grace.”

“I got Pia.”

“Not the same,” John says, accepting the opened beer but setting it on the table without trying it. He turns to look at Harper and Logan. “I know that you enjoy the lifestyle,” he says, glancing at Joey. “I know you’ve managed to make it work, but Harold is… complicated. If he came back to this life, he would never go home to Grace at the end of the day. It would scare him to know that she wouldn’t be safe when people come after us again.”

“If,” Logan corrects, only for John to stare back, reasserting his opinion.

“When.” They watch John run a hand over his mouth, taking a deep breath before he talks again. “I haven’t been cooperative, but I’m trying.”

“Cooperation is relative,” Logan says, taking a seat beside John and refilling his own glass. “You don’t have to like me. I have plenty of friends, right?”

Joey and Harper start rearranging their letters in silence.

“Right, guys?” Logan waits with a polite smile and John’s mouth tilts up on one side. “I sign your checks.”

“We’re great friends,” Joey says, handing him the bag of tiles.

Harper grabs her own beer, encouraging John to start the one he abandoned on the table. “The best.”


	4. Chapter 4

February 18th, 2017

“You didn’t call and talk to anyone this time, did you?”

Harold laughs a little. 

“No, I promise. Your work is exceptional with or without my help, and people have noticed.”

Grace relaxes, continuing the walk with their arms linked. She has her hair pulled back, and a lifetime of reading people tells him that she’s met someone new, but he doesn’t mention it. He knows that Grace will tell him when she’s ready for him to have an opinion on it, even if he already knows he’s happy for her. Closure with Harold has made her a bit more outgoing, willing to let herself be hurt again, even if she’s wary about lies and half-truths.

When a phone rings, he doesn’t notice at first, listening as she tells him more about the buyer who saw her displayed work and became interested in sponsoring her for a show at the local museum. As they walk, the ringing gets closer and it echoes in a way that Harold feels in his chest. He slows to a stop, waiting for the sound to stop - if someone would just pick up their cell phone - but when he turns, the payphone continues to ring for him. Thin fingers clutch at the forearm of his jacket.

“Is that the…”

Harold nods.

“Shouldn’t you take it?”

“Probably, yes.” Harold turns back to Grace, seeing that she’s gone a bit pale, eyes flickering between him and the call. “But not now.” He pats her hand, feeling the grip ease as they start to walk again. The ringing stops.

Harold doesn’t.

===

John is stuck with a number in the warehouse as the police show up, ending the gunfight but leaving him trapped. Joey and Harper are across town working on their own number, and Logan is just counting down the seconds from his office downtown, waiting for them to find John.

“Two more are sweeping the hallway you’re in now.”

“Not helping, Pierce.”

“Don’t worry, John. I have great lawyers and I promise to bail you out before anyone gets hurt.”

“I’m more concerned about the fact that they’re my past co-workers and I’m presumed dead.” He hangs up before Logan can answer, asking for the number’s phone and hesitating a half-second before he hears a door kicked in down the hall.

The call picks up. 

“Detective Fusco, NYPD.”

“I’m trapped in the back hall with a number, can you get me out?” There’s a choked sound, then Fusco’s voice returns like he has his hand curled around the receiver.

“Son of a bitch, you’re alive? And working numbers?”

“The warehouse, Lionel. Can you stop them?” John hears hushed voices and light footsteps down the hall. Another door is kicked in.

“Uh…” 

John leads the number to the back corner of the room, ducking behind some storage boxes as he hears shuffling from the other end of the line. Another door is kicked down, right beside the room they’re in.

Fusco’s order echoes from the hall and the phone. 

“We have hostiles viewed behind the building, let’s move.” There are a few voiced agreements and the rush of movement, their door kicked open but room unchecked, a single officer glancing around the storage space before leaving with the others. 

“All clear in the back hall, move to outside perimeter.”

The number takes a deep breath like he’d forgotten how, a young man that’s still shaking as John grips his arm and moves for the door. He lifts the phone to his ear, getting out the side exit and back onto the crowded streets before speaking. 

“Thanks for the cover.”

Fusco sounds like he’s walking into the front room with the others, muttering in order to keep their conversation private.

“I want an explanation, and fast, starting with where the hell you’ve been for three months. Meet me at the park tomorrow, my shift ends at seven.”

John thinks about it, the probability of Fusco telling Sameen about his undead status if he doesn’t show. 

“You’ve gotten bossy, Lionel.”

“That’s what happens when you piss off your friends. I’ve got the dog for the week, so he’ll have to join our touching reunion.”

“The more, the merrier.”

===

_  
April 2015   
_

_Harold sets aside his book on the second page, unable to get any farther. He just can’t focus when the heart monitor beeps continue to break the silence, John's shallow breathing barely audible underneath it._

_He's survived Hypothermia and a gunshot wound while huddled in a defunct car, one that Harold might have been able to recover. If he had ignored John’s request, demanded that he join him on the trip, maybe they wouldn’t be here like this._

_The photograph in his hand - rescued with John’s belongings - tells its own story. There’s something here that he doesn’t see, and he aches with the need to understand. Bear whines, drawing Harold’s attention. He’s too busy soothing the animal to notice that John's woken up until a hand bumps his own on the bed, startling him to look over. John swallows, eyes turned to the photograph as Harold sets it down on the bedside table with his ruined clothes._

_“I saw her,” he says, pausing to catch his breath. “She kept me alive.”_

_“Jessica.”_

_John shakes his head, his gaze going watery as it tries to focus on the image, and Harold understands._

_“Detective Carter.”_

_“I wasn’t alone.”_

_“Of course not,” Harold says, smiling as John’s eyes wander back to him, weak fingers curling up when Harold grasps his hand. “You never will be, Mr. Reese.”_

===

February 19th, 2017

“I won, Harry.”

He smiles, staring at the shop across the street as he replies. 

“Congratulations are in order. I apologize for not picking up before, but…” The Machine cuts in so he doesn’t have to think of an excuse. 

“Oh, don’t feel bad. It wasn’t an emergency. Sameen got herself into some trouble, but she found a way out again, as usual.”

“Yes, she’s quite good at that.” Harold sees a woman with long black hair exit the dessert shop he’s watching, and when she looks down into her take-out bag, the angles of her face remind him of Sameen.

“Are you happy?”

Harold’s smile is a reflex, but he pauses to think. 

“What do you mean?”

“I’d like to know how you’re doing, maybe catch up. We haven’t spoken in so long and I wouldn't mind, but I always wanted to know - are you happy, Harold?”

_Of course. Of course, I am._ That’s what he wants to say, but the words won’t reach his lips. _Grace has forgiven me, we’ve moved on. Last I checked, Sameen and Fusco are doing their jobs and setting a gold star standard._ Harold stares at nothing, mouth working around empty platitudes that just refuse to be said. The truth is that he misses them. Hearing Root’s voice is like ripping off a band-aid made of duct tape. It should be fine, but it hurts worse than he thought it might, and he doesn’t even start to think about –

Grace exits the shop, her sun-lit hair snapping his eyes back to the moment, and she looks around the sidewalk for him, holding an ice cream cone in each hand.

“I’m sorry, I have to go.”

He hangs up, calling Grace’s name and crossing the street to accept the dessert. They start their walk again, complimenting the quality of the ice cream and trying not to shiver. Italy is warmer than New York, but their choice is still strange enough to get a few looks that make Grace giggle into her scarf. Once they’ve finished their snack, they start to circle back, Harold walking them toward her apartment.

“You’re here to protect me, aren’t you?”

Harold looks at her and realizes that he doesn’t want to lie anymore. 

“Yes. Does it bother you?”

“A little. I think it’s because you got into so much trouble without me noticing. You tangled with some bad people, Harold - people with blindfolds and interrogation rooms and no moral compass,” Grace says, her hand gesturing in a straight line. It returns to his arm with a gentle hold.

“I should have warned you, I know. Don’t worry, they won’t be able to hurt you again.”

“Because you’re here, or because they just don’t care anymore?” 

He frowns, his walk slowing down until she has to compensate. Grace bumps their shoulders together. 

“One day, Harold, you’re going to realize that no one’s chasing you, and for your sake, I hope it’s sooner instead of later. Machine or no Machine in your life, you could feel happier with a little less paranoia weighing on your heart.” She tugs him and they start walking again, turning to cross a bridge. “One day, Harold.”

===

John meets Fusco in the park, watching him stumble as Bear pulls the leash taught, barking until it’s released and he can race forward. John is already crouched and waiting, almost bowled over by the force of the dog’s affection. He feels like he can breathe again after a long time underwater, still patting Bear’s side as Fusco gets close.

“You’re a rotten bastard for keeping it a secret this long.”

“Maybe I was trying to protect you,” John says. The detective’s stare grows more irritated. 

“I’d be touched if I believed anything that came out of your mouth. Five years I put up with you and you let me think you’re dead for months. Glasses too - that’s not cute.” John stands, winding Bear’s leash around his hand with a sigh. “Where the hell is he, by the way?”

“Italy,” John mutters. Fusco leans in with sharp eyes.

“I’m sorry, what was that?”

“Finch is in Italy.”

His friend’s disbelief reaches new heights. 

“The Machine gives you calls for half-way around the world now? Are you kidding me? You two are world-travelling super spies and I have to stay behind a desk and run interference for you – again. How glamorous.”

John doesn’t answer, starting to walk down the main path and hearing Fusco stutter on his own protests before falling into step beside him. 

“Can you at least start paying me?”

“Are innocent lives becoming worthless to a hotshot homicide detective?”

Fusco grunts, going quiet as they pass a few people and start the track again. John would be glad for the company if Fusco wasn’t fidgeting so much, looking around like they’re being tailed.

“You’re jumpier than the dog, Lionel. Something on your mind?”

He faces John, doing a full-body scan before he shakes his head. 

“You sure you’re okay?”

“A few more scars aren’t going to kill me anytime soon.”

“No, I mean…” Fusco stuffs his hands into his pockets, hesitant in a way that makes John stop with him on a less popular stretch of path. “You look tired. Is Glasses not giving you breaks or something? Are you working on a number right now?”

John considers lying again but on the off-chance that Finch returns with Grace and wants to properly introduce her to Fusco, John needs him on his side. 

“I’m working with Harper’s team on the numbers, not Finch. He doesn’t know.” 

The detective looks a little offended. 

“Hold on, Harper knew you were alive? Durban, Pierce?” John nods. “That’s a real dick move, pal. I can’t believe you told Logan Pierce instead of me.” He gestures to John’s weary face. “You better tell Glasses you’re working with them too or you’ll collapse of exhaustion.”

John tries to keep walking and Fusco grabs his arm, turning him slow and doing another visual scan. It lingers on his shaking fist around Bear’s leash and ends at the flat look in his eyes. 

“Nah. Tell me you’re not that stupid.”

“Think very carefully about what you say next, Lionel.” He stares at the detective’s hand in a polite suggestion to remove it, surprised when it just grips harder.

“He thinks you’re dead too?” John takes a deep breath and Fusco snaps, scowling as his voice gets a little too loud for their surroundings. “Are you trying to kill him? I get why you avoided me - a little - but Finch deserves better than that. He deserves to know you aren’t dead, even if you’re being weird and don’t want to see him. What the hell is that about, anyway?”

“Grace,” John breathes. It’s the one thing that’s kept him off a plane to Italy, kept him from picking up the nearest payphone and telling the Machine to connect the call. He hasn’t gone to the library, the subway, hasn’t spoken to Shaw, all because of one name. “He’s not like me. His second chance was waiting for him to take it, and we both know that he’d come back to the numbers if he was given the option.”

“You’re right.”

John is relieved, because he thought it would take more fighting than this. Everyone he talks to about this fights him on it.

“He deserves a happy ending, maybe more than any of us.” Fusco clenches his jaw, and John realizes that the argument has just begun. “But that is his decision to make. He wants to ignore it, throw away his happiness? Fine. I get that you wouldn’t waste it and that our job can be a bitch sometimes but we all made our choice to have this life, myself included. Hell, you could have done anything after your faked death but you chose to come back. Finch should get to do that too.”

“I couldn’t do anything else.” John watches the trees shake, fresh leaves grown in and kicking in the wind. “The job, the numbers. They’re all I have.”

Fusco waves a hand in front of his face, removing him from his daze.

“Well, now you’ve got me too.” 

When nothing else is said, John starts walking again and the detective joins him, leading the way to a new pizza place nearby. 

“As for Glasses, you don’t know what’s going on inside his head just like he doesn’t know what’s inside of yours. Maybe he’s thinking the numbers matter more than anything.”

“He has Grace,” John says, voice firm. He’s repeated that phrase a few times. It’s his key argument in getting the new team to leave Harold alone. 

Well, not alone. He has Grace.


	5. Chapter 5

_ April 2014 _

_Harold is standing with Bear in John’s living room, eyeing the open gun closet with mild resignation. He’s not sure why John called him over, but he suspects that the weapons will become a part of the problem soon._

_“Little help?”_

_He turns, surprised to find his friend in an expensive suit, his undone bowtie waiting to complete the look. Harold’s hands act on their own to fix the error, only realizing he’s moved once he’s almost done._

_“I’m impressed that you managed to get a date without any of us hearing about it.”_

_“I wouldn’t date someone who made me wear this for anything but my wedding, Finch.” John gestures to Harold’s work, walking away to adjust it in the mirror. “Or my funeral.”_

_Harold raises an eyebrow._

_“Do you have an announcement to make?”_

_“Or in this case, an exclusive exhibition on opening night,” John adds, lifting an embossed invitation from his nightstand. Harold takes it, reading about a new opening night for the collection that was interrupted by Kelly Lin’s elaborate theft. Hopefully they found a new event planner. “Get dressed or we’ll be late.”_

_“I didn’t bring-”_

_John holds up a suit, Harold staring between him and the invitation in baffled silence. No weapons involved._

_“I asked the dry-cleaning services to do a rush order. They pulled through for their loyal customer.”_

_“You’re serious.”_

_“Very,” John says, smiling as he does when he manages to get one step ahead of Harold. The plastic crinkles as John hands the suit over, and Harold does as he’s told, adjusting his glasses as he returns to John’s side._

_“I appreciate you notifying me, but I can cancel the guest reservation. I’m sure your ideal evening isn’t filled with ancient works of literature and people who are there to throw their money at each other out of social obligation.”_

_“Of course not, but I’m looking forward to the part where someone tries to steal a priceless artifact.”_

_“I don’t think you’ll get so lucky this time around.”_

_“Then you get to talk about historical significance for a few hours while I bring trust fund babies down a peg. Seems like fun to me.”_

_It does sound enjoyable, but he doesn’t have the heart right now. Failing to save a number and losing the black box files to Vigilance is a heavy combo. As much as he’d love to see the codex again, it doesn’t feel appropriate to play Harold Wren and ambiguous guest. He glances at his watch, then at Bear, who’s lying on a small bed in the corner of the living room._

_“If I go to the diner late enough, Melissa will let me buy the leftover apple pie. She’s even started keeping dog treats behind the counter.”_

_John is silent as Harold looks up, waiting for him to decide. It was a kind thought, going out of his way for this - and here’s Harold, throwing it back in his face._

_“That sounds even better,” John says, yanking on the bowtie until it pulls free from his collar, taking a deep breath and undoing the top button. This looks more like him. Bear perks up when John calls and gets the leash from its hook by the door. He’s securing it to the dog’s collar as Harold puts his coat back on and the invitation is abandoned on their way out._

_They end up with four slices after having a piece at the table, still dressed in suits that are formal enough to get strange looks for being at a diner just past midnight. Harold tells himself not to silently approve as John talks about hunting Frank the Mattress King down - just to make him face those women at the reunion himself.  
Harold’s mouth quirks to the side. _

_“I doubt being slapped a few times would change a man like that.”_

_“It couldn’t hurt.”_

_John reaches out, scratching behind Bear’s ears as Harold eats a glazed apple chunk that escaped the pastry shell, eyeing his friend’s rumpled collar and thinking about the change of plans._

_“I hope my recommendation didn’t ruin your thoughtful gesture, Mr. Reese.”_

_“Is that an apology?”_

_“Not quite,” Harold says, sliding the extra slices over. “But I’m sure this is just as satisfying. Happy birthday.”_

_Perhaps John thought he had forgotten, but a gift is currently sitting on a cabinet in the library, waiting for their arrival later in the day. John grips the leftover box with a smile._

_“Thanks, Finch. It’s nice to know you care.”_

===

April 3rd, 2017

Grace thanks him for the flowers, hugging him again after he hands them to her with his commendation. He’s prouder than she knows, and Harold allows her to return to her guests as he wanders around, admiring her work. From magazine covers to galleries in Italy, Harold loves how much of her personality shines through the canvas. 

As the night goes on, she makes her way back to him on occasion, but she’s always pulled away by an arriving friend or fresh acquaintance. After a bit of surveillance, Harold finds the person that Grace is interested in and silently accepts, even though it doesn’t change anything. The Machine would let him know if they were a real threat to Grace. Harold lifts a flute of white wine off a passing tray, sniffing the contents in a way that probably seems natural for an enthusiast, when it’s actually a check for tampering. One can never be too careful. He doesn’t take a drink, but its presence in Harold’s hand makes him blend in a bit better.

A passing conversation catches his attention because of the volume of the speaker's voice, like they’re trying to address the whole room. 

“This is one of his original prints. I have six of his pieces at my villa, if you wanted to check them out some time. It really shows pain, his work. I just love it.”

“Like a fisherman loves a worm,” Harold mutters behind the rim of his glass, confused by the silence until he’s left with ringing ears and a lack of oxygen. He’s not wearing an earpiece. This isn’t an event for a number. No one can hear him.

“Are you alright?”

He turns to find Grace watching him, her fingertips resting on his shoulder as he lowers the glass, putting a hand in his pocket so it will stop shaking. 

“I think it’s time for me to go home.”

Grace’s eyebrows come together in the definition of concern, and he knows what she’s going to offer before she speaks. He shakes his head. 

“Please, stay and enjoy the opening. You’ve earned this,” he says, lifting the hand off his jacket to press a firm kiss to her knuckles. “Have fun for me.”

She tries again, stepping in and talking low enough for only the two of them to hear. 

“Let me walk you home, Harold.”

“I need to be alone,” he breathes, lips pressed together as he tries a smile, feeling it flicker back into a default expression. Suppression is second nature to him. “Just for tonight, I’m so sorry.”

“No, it’s okay. Thank you for being here. And the flowers. I’ll see you for lunch tomorrow?” 

Harold is blinking too fast as he offers her a little nod, making his way around the other guests. Stepping outside - out of the climate-controlled air and windowless walls - Harold finds that he can breathe, head tipped back enough to see the stars. 

He checks the time on his phone and stops at a bakery on the way back to his apartment. Their pie is already sold out.

===

“This is low, Reese. Even for us.”

John isn’t surprised. He knew Sameen would find him eventually, but he wasn’t expecting it to be tonight, especially because it’s already one in the morning. He sets his phone aside and watches her slide into the booth seat across from him. 

“I should apologize.”

“You think? I don’t have a lot of friends. Losing two in one day was shocking, to say the least.”

“Did Fusco tell you?”

“Squealed an hour ago.”

John smiles. 

“What gave us away?”

“Bear was clean. Fusco wouldn’t give the dog a bath if I paid him, which meant that he let someone borrow him. He tried to lie at first, say it was his kid. That didn’t go well.” The waitress approaches, flipping a mug and pouring Sameen a coffee. The woman winks at John, like she’s proud of him for finding another friend. Sameen gives him a flat look when she leaves. “Cute, you guys must be best buds.”

John takes a quiet sip from his mug. 

“What now?”

“Now we get the band back together. Any idea where Harold is?”

“Harold’s not coming back.”

“But he’s alive?”

“Very much so.”

Sameen narrows her eyes. 

“Then he’d want to come back. Call him, let me talk to him.”

John picks up his phone but doesn’t hand it over, going back to the Instagram page he was searching earlier and flipping through the photos. When he slides it across the table, Sameen frowns, leaning forward to look at what’s on screen, fingers tapping to zoom in.

It’s Harold, in a photograph taken when his back is turned. His left arm is held behind him, the hand gripping a small bouquet of white roses. His right is wrapped around Grace’s torso, her grinning face visible over Harold’s shoulder as they hug. The museum captioned the post, but John didn’t bother to translate, figuring it was a promotion for the new exhibit. He looks into Grace sometimes and tonight a tag happened to lead him to the museum’s page.

“Shit.” Sameen continues to stare.

“He’s out for good,” John says. “Don’t drag him back into this.”

She looks up, probably to comment on the fact that they dragged her into this first, but she’s a good spy. John’s face isn’t saying a lot and she manages to hear it anyway. 

“He got lucky.”

John nods. “Lucky.”

She looks down at the phone, sliding it back across the table before drawing the attention of their waitress. 

“Excuse me, what does he normally eat here?”

The woman looks confused, trying to smile as she glances at John. 

“Breakfast? Eggs, sausage, pancakes sometimes. Melissa lets him buy our pies on the nights we don’t get to sell all the slices.”

“We’ll take whatever pie you have left, thanks.” She nods, heading back to the counter as Sameen notices the coffee. She drinks it fast, even though it’s probably too hot.

“Damn, that’s good.”

“I know.” John takes a deep breath as three pieces are set down, then a box. “Thank you.” The waitress smiles. Once she's left, Sameen holds out a fork, wobbling it between her fingers until John takes it and cuts into the first slice. It’s blueberry, but not bad.

“Happy birthday, Reese.”


	6. Chapter 6

_ June 2015 _

_“Where’s Root?”_

_“She left to get…dinner,” Harold says, noticing the bag in John’s hand. “We didn’t realize you’d be stopping by.”_

_“No numbers to follow, remember? Besides, there’s no place like home.” Harold smiles, taking the sandwich as he exits the car, moving to sit on the couch Root insisted on carrying in. John settles in and stretches over the arm on the opposite side, then relaxes into the small corner the cushions create where they meet. “Any progress with the Machine?”_

_Harold shakes his head._

_“Still behaving strangely. Sometimes I wonder if it wouldn’t be easier to start from scratch considering all the bugs we’ve had to identify and patch in the last week.”_

_“You should introduce it to a renegade ex-billionaire that’ll offer it a job under suspicious and vaguely threatening circumstances.” John is only partially joking, and Harold’s mouth tightens around the edges when he shrugs. “It worked for me, didn’t it?”_

_“Hm.”_

_Root returns with dinner and ends up taking it in her room to protest for eating without her. Harold returns to work in the subway car. After his third sigh, John sits down in the adjacent chair and watches the camera feed glitch, only identifying one of their faces at a time._

_“You don’t think it can be recovered.”_

_Harold makes sure that Root is still pouting out of earshot, then leans in as though he’s trying to get closer to the other monitors and adjust the wires. “No, but we don’t have another option here. Either we fix the Machine or we die. It’s not looking good, Mr. Reese.”_

_“Then you should know that I’m here either way.” Harold keeps his eyes on the screen, not wanting to entertain the possibility that the Machine has abandoned them to their fate, or estimate how it would affect their current life spans. “But I do want a raise.”_

_“For what I’ve paid in damages over the years, I think we can call it even. Though you have accumulated plenty of paid vacation days.”_

_John grins, swiveling his chair around to lean back, facing the rest of HQ._

_“I’ll make sure to use them when this is over. Where are we going?”_

_Harold thinks about returning to Italy, but now it just means being close to Grace again. Close, but too far. He thinks about everything they stand to lose, the probability of getting through this and having days off afterwards. The numbers never stop._

_An elbow bumps his chair, gets it to spin enough that Harold loses his train of thought and adjusts his seat to face the computers again._

_“Don’t give up so fast, Finch.” John’s smile fades until it means fondness instead of amusement. “The Machine might surprise you.”_

===

April 13th, 2016

One thing Harold loves about being away from New York is finding new places to have breakfast, something he can share with Grace for their next day together. He was able to find the perfect restaurant for her birthday yesterday and she mentioned the man that Harold’s already identified, claiming he was just a friend she was having for dinner. It’s a deep cut, even with everything he’d already seen and assumed. But he’s healing, which is the part he wasn’t sure would be possible.

A cup is delivered to his table and after a small sip, he hopes the pastry he ordered is as superb as their tea. It's like they knew exactly how he liked it. So its a little less than strange when the waitress who set down his saucer pulls out the chair across from him and he gets a good look at their face. 

“Try not to cry, Harry.” 

He almost chokes on his drink, but Harold manages to put the cup down before he drops it. Is he seeing things now? No, it’s her, smiling at him before she stops the waiter to order a coffee.

“I’m very happy to see you again, Ms. Groves.” There was an A-plus effort to keep his voice from breaking.

“I tried to tell you that she was looking out for us. You needed a push and I needed to disappear, even if it meant giving up for a while.”

“Ms. Shaw…”

Root shakes her head minimally, taking a moment to watch him. 

“It was a spur of the moment decision, and it took her a while to decide I could come back. That we would be safe if I did.”

“Of course, I understand from personal experience,” Harold says, frowning into his well-made cup of tea. “We should really stop faking our deaths.” Root smiles again, and he wonders why she came here, why she didn’t take the first flight home. Maybe the Machine asked her to make a stop. “Do you still hear her?”

“I hear myself,” Root clarifies, confirming what Harold assumed.

“You don’t mind her using your voice?”

“Imitation is the sincerest form of flattery. Besides, it’s like we were the same person to begin with - like destiny. I’m her interface, remember?”

“Yes, I should have guessed you wouldn’t care either way. Sometimes I forget that you abducted me twice just to meet her.”

Root tilts her head. 

“You kept me prisoner in a Faraday cage.”

Harold goes back to his tea.

He knows what she’ll ask, and he knows why the Machine sent her here. He’s a missing piece, but if anyone’s asking, Harold thinks they should just get a new puzzle. Root finishes her drink in peace before bringing it up. 

“It’s time to come home, Harry. We could be great again; we could save lives again.”

Harold keeps his eyes firmly on the table, away from the thought of rooftops. 

“Ms. Groves, I know you’ve been absent due to your untimely death, but some things are more permanent than that.”

Her mouth opens, then closes again, and she turns to look at the nearby traffic camera in disbelief. 

“What? Why? That’s a bad idea,” she says. Harold’s eyebrows raise, surprised at the disapproval in her voice because it’s directed at the Machine for once. “I’m telling him.” Now Harold sits up, leaning forward like he can overhear their conversation. 

“Telling me what?”

There’s the sound of horns honking, and from their outdoor table, they can see that the four-way road traffic has come to a halt on the street corner, every stoplight shining red for all directions. There’s shouting as windows are rolled down, and Harold turns back to face the table when Root scoffs. 

“I know you don’t want to get involved, but I can do it for you. If he gets mad, I’ll take the fall for it.”

“Mad?”

Root rolls her eyes. 

“Yes, they’ll know you were the one to tell me, but it’s not your fault. I asked, you answered: No sides taken.”

Harold gives up, standing from the table and paying at the counter as he hears Root arguing with herself. The growing commotion on the corner makes Harold turn, taking a different route from usual, one that’s a little less familiar, making him slow to ensure he doesn’t miss a turn or wayward sign. Root’s heeled boots tap against the street behind him, catching up fast.

“Sameen is different. I asked you to hold off so that we could have a touching reunion, but they weren’t planning to tell him at all.”

Harold stops in the middle of the sidewalk, huffing in exasperation. 

“Tell me what?”

A few feet away, the payphone rings.

===

The number is familiar this week and John takes the job, stepping out into the alley after he takes down the man pointing a gun at Zoe’s head. He murmurs for Bear to stay, the animal's chest rumbling with his teeth bared at the downed stranger.

“Still getting into trouble.” He watches Zoe chuckle, crouching down to pluck something from the groaning man’s hand before meeting him halfway. 

“You know, this kind of prompt protection has made me pretty untouchable in the dark side of my job.” Zoe leans up, as though she’s going to press a kiss to his cheek, but her clutch is slapped into his stomach instead and John holds his breath, not giving her the satisfaction of a wheezed inhale as the air is knocked out of his lungs. “That guy thought he could get away with crossing me because you fell off the map for a while. Everyone thinks you’re dead,” she says, peeking around him to see Joey standing by the car. “But we both know you're invincible. I need a ride back to my place.”

“No problem,” John sighs, running a hand over his abdomen as she leads the way with Bear.

Joey makes polite conversation, not saying anything when they arrive and Zoe convinces John to come up for a drink. 

“No ulterior motives, I promise. You look like you could use it,” she says, holding the door open. His escape route is already pulling away, and he's forced to follow Bear into the townhouse.

“You need better security.” John watches her turn the single deadbolt.

“But then we’d never see each other.” Zoe smiles at him, lifting her bag in surrender before setting it aside. He follows through the dark apartment, watching her slide open a drawer to pull out a deck of cards, a mini set of poker chips, and a corkscrew. She steps into a small closet, offering him wine to open. “Do you feel like sharing today?” 

John decides to work, all his attention narrowed on the tool in his hands. Zoe sets the glasses down as he continues to twist, and he sees her pull a container of leftover chicken from her fridge, removing the lid before she sets it on the ground for Bear.

“I’ve saved two people in the last week, not including you.”

“Gold star,” she drawls, circling to sit beside him as he manages to open the bottle, accepting the glass after he’s finished pouring. “Also not what I meant. For every hand I win, you tell me a reason why you’re not sleeping.”

“I sleep.”

“Not sleeping well.”

“I haven’t slept well since 2003.” 

Zoe shrugs, dealing a hand before they tap their glasses together for a toast.

“To your uncanny sense of timing,” she says, making John smile as the wine stains his lips.

After a few rounds, he’s starting to think the game is rigged. She pries him for deeper and deeper things, looking disappointed each time, her mouth pursing before she shakes her head and they go again. When he folds, he doesn’t have to say anything. John never wins, so it’s never established what he gets in return. When he’s down to two chips, she has the rest of them stacked by color in a small fort around her cards. She lets him check until the end, and he looks at his odds, putting in one chip.  
Zoe stares at the bet, then the board, then her own hand. 

“All in.” John thinks she’s kidding until all her stacks are shoved into the middle. 

“I fold,” he says, staring at his last chip before putting his cards face down. She doesn’t ask to see them, raking in the money and throwing down a hand that gives her the higher pair. She would have beat him again.

“That’s the difference between you and me. I’m willing to go all in.”

“Most people would call that reckless.”

Zoe shakes her head and tips back the glass, setting it aside as she opens the chip case. 

“When I try something like that, I do whatever it takes to make sure I don’t lose. In this case, that’s counting cards.” 

John laughs, packing the deck back into its box. When he’s finished, he taps the corner against the counter, watching as she washes out the glasses and hums to herself. At some point, she took off her shoes and put up her hair, and John realizes that he’s taken off his jacket. They’ve relaxed around each other, and he’d forgotten what it was like to drop his defenses with someone else still in the room.

“Finch doesn’t know I’m alive.” 

She looks over to him, then takes a deep breath, turning off the faucet.

“I thought so.” John asks how she knew. “You didn’t mention him. Didn’t tap your ear in the last three hours. He’d never leave you alone for that long without saying something.”

“Yeah.” Through the glass doors that lead to her balcony, John watches the lights of a car pass on the street below.

“You’re very selfless, so I get the feeling that this is because you have the notion that he’s better off without you, or without the job that you two do. I still don’t know what that is, by the way. I’ve asked around and nobody seems to know.” She starts putting away the game.

“I’m not alone, really. I have other co-workers.”

“Well, yes, I met one earlier. But none of them are Harold, right?”

John runs a finger over his jaw, moving up to brush his inner ear without realizing, a habit that he thought had been broken. 

“No.”

“So, you don’t sleep.”

“I don’t do anything,” John finds himself saying, voice teasing even though he’s telling the truth. Zoe waits. “I do my job and watch my dog when Shaw lets me. The new guys invite me to play board games.”

“You’re kidding,” she says, smiling as he looks back with serious eyes.

“It’s once a week, if they’re not busy. Safe to say I’m not adjusting well.”

“Maybe because you got lucky the first time around,” Zoe says. John blinks at her, watching as she stares back in wary curiosity. “What, you don’t think so?”

“It’s what you said. Lucky.” 

They both look down at the sound of Bear stirring, and when he starts to pace, John realizes that it’s early morning and he probably should have been taken out at some point. John takes that as a sign to leave, sliding back into his jacket with Zoe’s assistance.

“Listen, if you take my advice, make sure you take all of it.” She pats his shoulder and heads for the door. “If you’re betting something big, do everything you can to win.”  
They say their goodbyes and with a soft pat on the chest she reminds him to bring a better drink for the next time they meet. Right as Bear hops onto the sidewalk, Zoe calls John’s name and he turns on the bottom step.

“I was never in danger, you know. That guy isn’t a killer.” She tips her head against the door and offers him a smile. “And I think you needed me tonight, more than I needed to be saved. If that happens again, you know where to find me.”

He nods and Zoe shuts the door, but John waits until he hears the bolt of the lock to take the last step, joining Bear and starting their walk home.

===

It’s just before sunrise when Grace opens the door, and her smile falls in seconds, taking the light with it.

“You’re going back.”

Harold watches her wait for a response, trying and failing to find the right words. He ends up taking a deep breath and just stares. Grace is perceptive, and Harold had almost forgotten how well she reads him. The pale face, rigid posture, twitching hands. When he looks away, back toward the street, she gets worried. 

“It’s your friend, right? John.”

Harold feels a weight lifting off his shoulders as she says it for him. He came to notify her that he was leaving because she deserves that much, but he didn't imagine it would be this difficult.

“I’m afraid so.”

“Not as dead as you thought?”

Harold sighs.

“Will you come back?” His eyes lift from his shoes, prepared to reassure her that he’s going for closure, that he intends to return by the day after tomorrow, that he’ll still meet her for their Sunday brunch. The words die in his throat and he swallows around them, watching as she gives him a small smile. “To visit sometime.”

“Yes,” Harold nods, head jerking up and down a few times as he returns the smile. “If you need me before then, just pick up a phone and ask.”

“That’s so weird,” she says, laughing a little as she watches him. “Isn’t it?”

“I wouldn’t know,” he says, watching her grin settle into genuine amusement, and she holds out her arms. Harold accepts the hug, whispering his goodbye as a car pulls up on the street behind him. Root’s voice draws their attention as they separate.

“Hi. Nice to finally meet you,” she calls, waving at Grace over the roof of the car. Grace raises a hand to wave back, speaking quietly to Harold.

“Also not dead?” 

“We’re not a creative bunch, when it comes to disappearing.”

Grace laughs again and sunlight peeks over the horizon.


	7. Chapter 7

April 14, 2016

When they reach New York, their first planned stop is the subway, but they pass a plaza that gives Harold pause. He glances at John’s pre-Samaritan apartment building before turning left, forcing Root to slow down.

“What is it?”

“I just remembered something I forgot to do before leaving. I’ll catch up with you at the subway, Ms. Groves.”

Root looks curious but now that she’s allowed a reunion, he doubts that anything will slow her down. She nods, continuing toward the subway and Sameen.

Harold approaches the older man to find that he’s halfway through a game with a stranger. If his vacation taught him anything, it was the value of having free time and patience again, so he sits at a nearby bench and watches Mr. Han play. He’s backing his opponent into a corner, and Harold can’t help a smile when the man doesn’t realize it until he’s already in check, his next moves only securing Han's victory.

“Rematch,” the man demands with a good-hearted scowl, making Han chuckle.

“Maybe next time. For now, I think someone wants my attention.” Harold looks around for someone who’s waiting as well, then realizes that Han is talking about him. 

“Are you Mr. Finch? Looking for an ex-employee, maybe?”

“Yes, I-” Harold stops as the stranger turns to him in surprise, probably figuring that Han was just trying to get out of another game. He’s fast to stand up, gesturing to the bench after patting Han’s shoulder and calling to another player across the circle. “I didn’t want to interrupt. How did you know I was here?”

“After three years, John stops showing up to games. Radio silence for three more years, then he returns telling me that he quit that job.” He beckons for Harold to sit, waiting until he’s done shifting to gesture to the board. “You know how to play?”

“Yes,” Harold replies, resetting the pieces.

“Anyway, John used to talk about you, but when he came back, you were a rare topic. Today, I heard someone who was walking with a recovered back injury stop and choose a seat near my table. Process of elimination. A stab in the dark.”

“A very clever one,” Harold replies. “I can see why he enjoys your company. Soldier A4 to A5.” 

Han smiles and Harold suspects that the man knows something he doesn’t, but his reply is genuine enough.

“Thank you. He comes more often now, but I have a feeling it’s his new job that makes him upset enough to stop by.”

“Oh?”

“Logan Pierce, big CEO of a tech company, or so I was told by a friend after he left. John’s new boss.”

“He introduced you to Mr. Pierce.” 

Mr. Han waves a hand. 

“More like Mr. Pierce introduced himself. Don’t worry, you’re still John’s favorite.”

Harold smiles to himself. They play a few moves and he gets absorbed in the game, enough that he forgets his original intention of sitting down to ask about John.

“He hasn’t played this week," Han tells him. "John warned me that he was going full-time; I doubt you’ll catch him here today.”

“No, that’s alright. I was just trying to locate him, but Mr. Pierce should be a good enough place to start.”

Han looks intrigued, leaning away from the board but not commenting. They play to the end, and even though Harold is aware of his doom sooner than Han’s last opponent, their fate is the same. 

“You’re rusty, Mr. Finch. But I get the feeling that enough time spent practicing would allow you to win.”

“That’s a high compliment.”

“Deserved,” Han says. “When you find John, remind him that closed doors can be opened again.”

===

_ May 2013 _

_“I should have known when she sold me on this fabric that it was a bad idea. The price was too much, even for a bespoke suit. This storm will ruin it in seconds,” Harold complains, hand twisting the weaved rope of Bear’s leash. “Let’s just get it over with.” He tries to step out from under the theatre awning, a careful arm blocking the way._

_“Don’t let bad weather ruffle your feathers. Wait here.”_

_He goes to protest but John’s already gone, coat collar turned up against the rain as he disappears down the street. Harold runs a hand behind Bear’s ear, adjusting the service vest and peering through the storm as he waits for his friend to return. The tap on his shoulder makes him swivel in alarm, blinking up at John as the man shoves a hand back through his hair on his forehead. Rain is dripping off every edge of his clothing. A new umbrella opens between them and John beckons for him to walk, starting on the path back to the library. Harold makes sure to get underneath the small shelter before it leaves the awning._

_“What on Earth were you thinking? Your suit is made of the same material.”_

_John smiles, rain rushing over him again as Harold and Bear remain relatively dry._

_“Yes, but now you only have to buy one replacement.”_

_“I’ll make sure to take it out of your account.”_

_“Careful, Finch. Start docking my pay and you might find yourself taking down mafia dons and dirty cops alone.”_

_The rain lets up, enough that they can see without squinting. Harold notices the street camera across the intersection and finds that John’s eyeing the same thing. His partner’s weight shifts, and now he’s blocking its line of sight, hiding Harold like a shadow behind him._

_“I doubt that very much, Mr. Reese.”_

===

Harold calls Logan’s office and gets put on hold, but it only lasts about ten seconds.

“Finch, what an honor. How’s Italy this time of year?”

“Strangely enough, I prefer New York weather.” Harold turns in place, eyeing the emptied loft with mild irritation, even though he knows that John returning here wouldn’t have been the safest choice. “I spoke to a friend of mine and he mentioned that you might have Mr. Reese’s new address?”

Logan is quiet, then his tongue clicks as he inhales. 

“Ah, Han. You know, I always thought the Machine would spill the beans someday. Loyalty compels me to ask if you’re sure about this.”

“I’m not feeling particularly patient, Mr. Pierce.” Harold slides open the top drawer of an abandoned nightstand, reaching into the empty space and turning his hand to press against the top. There’s a taped envelope fixed inside that he pulls free, tipping the contents into his hand to find 5,000 in small bills and three fake identities. Seems that Harold isn’t the only paranoid one.

“Do you have a pen handy?”

===

Bear seems reluctant to be given back to Fusco, trying to follow John out of the diner as he goes to leave.

“I’d say you could keep him longer if the half-pint wasn’t so trigger happy.”

John’s phone buzzes in his pocket and he looks at the screen long enough to acknowledge it’s Pierce. He ignores the call, knowing that there’ll be another if it’s a real emergency. 

“This has been fun, Lionel. We should do it again sometime.”

“You’re only saying that because I offered to foot the bill,” the detective snorts. “Shaw orders steak and makes you pay for it.”

John shrugs, patting Bear’s head once more as he exits. The night is colder than it should be in April and he burrows into the coat, heading into dead zones and doubling back to make sure he isn’t followed. The chill makes his shoulder ache. He should call Logan back, but John assures himself that it can wait for tomorrow, based on the previous calls at this time being attempts to invite him out with them to one of Logan’s nightclubs. Today is long enough without pretending to enjoy himself so they’ll stop worrying about him.

He’s working, eating, meeting with Sameen and Fusco. Sometimes he’ll indulge the new team, if it’s a private invitation. He’s been to Joey’s for dinner. John’s alive and would like to stay that way, so they shouldn’t push themselves to check on him so often. Zoe gets it.

The elevator opens on his floor, and John’s first thought is that someone should turn the music down. It’s not until he’s reached his own door that he realizes it’s coming from inside the loft, an opera song that makes him think Decima is just trying to make things dramatic. He’s not sure how they tracked him here, but he’s prepared to find out, unlocking the door with a quiet push, even though he could kick the door down and it wouldn’t be heard over the music. John shuts the door behind him, not wanting to disturb his neighbors more than it surely already has. 

He leads with the gun, turning the corner to find a figure standing at the wall of windows. The only thing that holds his finger back from the trigger is the familiarity of the profile, the moon shining in to cast strange shadows on Harold’s face. The music was his way of getting John to come inside instead of running away at the first sign that Harold had found him. John’s speakers are still blaring music and he makes his way over to turn it down. Once it’s quiet, John approaches his old friend, but Harold remains looking out at the sky and the streets below. 

“I’m starting to wonder if you’re invincible. I believe this is the fifth time you’ve done the impossible since we met.”

“Fourth,” John says, thinking about the CIA ambush, hunting down Quinn to reach Simmons, hypothermia, and the naval missile.

“I’m counting the bomb vest, of course. That was just as close as the others, if less physically daunting.”

John puts the gun back in his waistband, wanting to ask questions but knowing that it’s not his turn. Harold deserves answers. 

“I keep telling myself that I should have known. Should have felt that you weren’t gone.” Harold glances at him. “Not really gone.”

“I’m good at being dead, Finch.” John sees him take a deep breath, still watching the traffic. “You were happy.”

“Retirement had its moments, but being back is just as good. After all, we have a job to do.”

John doesn’t try to suppress the thrill of relief he feels as Harold’s mouth twitches into a smile. He’s not going to question his decision. It wasn’t meant to end up this way, but it’s impossible to make Harold forget about all this and put his own happiness first. If he’s coming back either way, then John might as well come back with him. 

“I don’t suppose you’re hiring?”

===

April 15th, 2016

Harold gets up early, a strange eagerness in his morning ritual that he hasn’t experienced since the first time Grace agreed to breakfast after their reunion. He’s already outside the door of his own apartment when he gets a text from Sameen. She lets him know that Root is helping her move everything from the subway to set up shop in the library again. He’s standing in line for his tea when a familiar shadow falls over his right side, lifting the lid of a pastry box as Harold takes a deep breath.

“Great minds think alike,” John says, ordering for them as they reach the server. His partner turns, handing over the tea with a challenge in his eyes. Harold curls his fingers around the insulated cup, taking a sip and nodding as they move together toward the library. 

“It’s perfect, Mr. Reese.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're now moving on to what I've been calling Part Two. I wanted to thank you guys for reading and enjoying what you have so far and letting me know what you think. Stay safe out there!


	8. Chapter 8

April 30th, 2016

The crooked tie is what bothers him.

Harold notices it when John returns from changing, dressed to stalk their next number at her job. It requires John’s usual wardrobe with some key improvements, including finer fabric and a tie, which they agreed on after John refused to try the bowtie again.

While John feeds Bear, it’s crooked. When he teases Sameen, it’s crooked. On the phone with Fusco, it’s crooked.

Hovering is a habit of John’s that has only increased in regularity since their reunion, so when he comes in close, leaning over the table like it’s untippable, Harold can see precisely how tilted the knot is and it bothers him. He reaches out, holding the end until John angles his body toward Harold. A steady push puts the tie in place and Harold adjusts the clip, making sure it’s even with the new length.

“Your employers will notice a thing like that, Mr. Reese. They aren’t as lenient with the dress code as I am,” Harold says, watching Sameen smile and relax further into a chair in her layered leather outfit. She continues reloading magazines and Harold lets go, turning back to his screens to show John information that he found on their number’s closest co-worker.

In his periphery, he catches John smoothing the adjusted fabric occasionally.

John returns to the library later that afternoon with number in hand and Harold shows her to the small room they’ve sectioned off for longer stays, conveniently keeping the Faraday cage out of sight. It tends to give the wrong impression. John is already using the computer as Harold comes back alone, pulling up an article based on a snippet of the conversation that Harold caught earlier, preoccupied with helping Sameen escape another disaster. 

“They used to date,” John says, gesturing to the vice president’s profile on the company website. “Which she forgot to mention until we happened to overhear him arguing about how gone he wanted her to be with the assassins he hired.”

“Doesn’t anyone break-up amicably these days?”

“Where’s the fun in that, Finch?” 

John’s tie is crooked again. Harold must be staring because John’s hands move for him, sliding the knot into place with a light pat for added sarcasm. 

“Good?” 

No, it’s not right anymore. Before, there was a cover that needed boosting, but he doesn’t think John will be working there again anytime soon. His hand wraps around the tie, near the top, and he uses the other to push fabric up and out of the fold. With a rhythmic slackening, Harold manages to separate the two sides, pulling down with his right, and the cotton collar hisses with friction. Once it’s gone, Harold undoes the top button to barely expose the throat as he tosses the discarded tie onto his desk. John looks perfect now, the way he’s meant to look, but Harold is suddenly feeling bashful and opts for a less precise adjective. 

“It’s fine, thank you.”

John nods and walks away, calling for Bear to follow him toward the guest room. Uncurling his fingers with a wince, Harold finds small pink divots in his palm, reminding himself to cut his nails shorter than usual.

===

May 9th, 2016

Harold smiles as Zoe manages a double entendre, his identity as another unrelated donor forcing him to hide it in his glass. John looks exasperated but makes a smooth recovery for his “wife”, escorting her away for a dance.

“Has Hager made a move?”

“Not yet," Harold informs him. "Are you tapping out, Mr. Reese?”

“Undecided for the moment," John says, watching in exasperation as a couple lunges past with their faces pressed together. " -but I'm leaning toward yes.”

“Maybe I can change your mind,” Zoe says, leaning in close enough to be heard by the mic as she slides her hand down John’s back. He’s quick to put it back in place as she grins, enjoying her improvised cover more than John can appreciate. It’s their standard game - and with his own amusement, Harold recognizes that she’s winning.

John doesn’t get distracted easily. “Shaw, update.”

“A vehicle with tinted windows pulled up. I’m guessing it’s the getaway car.”

“Take out the tires, just in case.”

“I’m the one on sniper duty, I’ll decide what I do with the gun.”

“My gun,” John points out, cutting off Sameen’s response with a tap on his earpiece. “Private network?”

“Yes,” Harold mutters behind an uneaten appetizer, making a sour face as he sets it back down on a passing empty tray. It smelled divine but Harold doesn’t want to underestimate Hagar’s desire to take down their victim. “Any particular reason you’re on edge tonight?”

“Too many unknown factors. The event’s ending, we don’t know where Hagar plans to do this or how, and the crowd means a lower chance of no casualties if it turns into a shootout.”

“If something does happen, I doubt these people will stick around long enough to get in the way.” Harold circles the dance floor and watches John lead Zoe toward a circle of trophy wives by the open bar, leaving her to that fate as she gives him a polite and murderous look.

John is headed toward him, still meandering through the crowd to look natural as the lights go out. A hand circles his arm in seconds and Harold stiffens when people start to scream, but then his heart adjusts and he knows it’s a familiar grip. 

“When it’s clear, get Zoe outside safely,” John says, the same hands dragging Harold through the dark. The lights flicker back on, and he’s been dropped at the bar next to his charge with John nowhere in sight. He taps his earpiece to bring Sameen back in.

“Ms. Morgan,” Harold says, offering an arm as she finishes her drink. They join their number in a small group of people who have decided to leave before something worse happens, even though a man steps up to the podium microphone and asks them to remain calm.

Zoe leans a little closer. “Don’t you want to stick around? Might be fun.”

“This is not my ballgame, I’m afraid. I hire people to have fun for me.”

“And he pays well,” Sameen says, making Harold smile as he escorts Zoe down the front steps. “Escape’s out. They’re all yours, Reese.”

“Don’t mind if I do.” There are muffled groans, then the sound cuts. 

Harold unlocks the car they parked across the street earlier for this very occasion, opening the passenger door for Zoe and letting it close behind her. He circles to the driver side as shouting starts at the entrance, and finds it strange that all the bystanders are staring at him. 

When the gun presses up against his abdomen, Harold’s breath escapes in a rush, the arm around his throat keeping him back against Hagar, the man’s frantic face staring at the security guards as they approach. Their tip to the authorities must have backfired, sirens sending him running for the defunct getaway car only to need alternate transportation. With a bit of chagrin, he learns that Hagar isn’t above taking hostages.

“I lost visual and now I can’t get a clean shot,” Sameen mutters. “Stay calm, Harold.”

He can’t respond, but it would be extremely sarcastic. 

John’s line hums back to life. “What happened?”

“Hagar has Finch by the car. I’d have to shoot through him.” The man has started making demands, shouting loud enough to give Harold a headache. He’s terrified but also just annoyed. John appears in the crowd across the way, a hand in his jacket that means he’s hiding a gun. That doesn’t mean he can use it at the moment.Hagar is panicking now, the red and blue lights coming down the street meaning that they have to get out of the situation fast or risk their own exposure. John is moving to be parallel with them on the far side of the street. 

“I slipped a taser into your pocket earlier. Can you reach it?”

Harold finds the hollow brick of a weapon, hand holding it out of sight as he waits for the right timing. Hagar gestures with the gun, still yelling at security when Harold strikes low, shocking the gut and stumbling back. Sameen steps in. 

There are a few shouts, the gunfire used to take down Hager causing panic that gives John cover to approach, herding Harold into the back seat as Zoe asks if he’s okay. Once John pulls away from the curb, she faces front with a relieved sigh. 

“I bet you wish you had called shotgun,” she says. Harold is more focused on the driver of the car. 

“You hid a taser in my pocket?”

“You’ve been abducted three times and refuse to hold a gun, Finch. I thought you might need something to protect yourself.”

“Thank you for your concern, but I don’t like weapons being smuggled into my clothing without appropriate warning because it generally means that I’ll be expected to use them.”

“If you kept one yourself, I wouldn’t have to smuggle anything.” Harold frowns until John holds out a hand, letting him return the taser, and his friend takes it out of sight.

“Refrain from arming me the next time you see an opportunity, Mr. Reese, or we may have to discuss boundaries in the near future.”

Zoe chuckles, smile falling as they turn to stare at her. “Was that not a joke?”

Harold runs a hand over his own knee and leans back, letting the conversation sit until they’ve returned to the library, sans Zoe. Collapsing onto the couch, he’s relieved to be away from the chaos of their rushed plans and the spotlight that rich identities cast over them. That cover took a few days of fancy events, and even though Harold is more familiar with them, he’s exhausted as well.

John takes a deep breath. “I get sniper duty next time.”

“If you would like to wrangle Ms. Shaw into another dress, the position is yours.” 

“Sounds like a dangerous job interview.”

“You’re the expert,” Harold replies, his friend’s smile sliding over his face, eyes closed and relaxed. It’s nice, being home. At this point, an apartment is just where Harold sleeps, and the time spent here feels closer to the idea of a living space. Bear hops up between them, curling to put his head on Harold’s lap. 

“I think we’re past the point of boundaries,” John comments. His voice is brighter than usual, usually reserved for when everyone is comfortable and out of harm’s way. It’s a rare pitch. 

“I agree, but I have to ask that you don’t hide weapons on my person without permission.”

“Sure thing, Harold. I’ll ask next time.”

===

The following week, they’re headed out of a building they just hacked their way into when security shows up. It’s implied that they aren’t standard fare when the shooting starts. John convinces Sameen to clear an exit while he keeps them occupied at the front door, a hand on Harold’s back forcing him to join her.

“Keep this on you,” John says, holding out the same taser. Harold’s eyes move to the tape that John’s attached to find that his name is written on it, but he hesitates to accept, not loving the implication that he officially owns a taser. “What?”

“It’s not a good idea.” 

John fires again as one shot gets too close, a muffled cry echoing through the lobby.

“We have to go,” Sameen hisses, grabbing Harold’s arm as they run out of time. On impulse, Harold pulls out of the friendly grip and takes the offered weapon with nervous hands. 

“Be careful, Mr. Reese.” 

The line between John’s eyebrows clears as he sees the taser go into Harold’s pocket, the safety already on. “I always am. Go.”

Harold almost protests but Sameen’s grasp is a lot less friendly when it has to snatch him up again, helping him toward a door down the hall that should lead to a rear exit. John goes back to covering them, a few shouts meaning that he’s more accurate than before, and he realizes that he’s relaxed into his standard professional detachment with Finch’s safety no longer in jeopardy. He tells himself it’s a good thing.


	9. Chapter 9

June 12th, 2016

The embossed envelope draws Harold's attention as he flips through the mail, care of the Wren alias. He checks the contents against a backlight, then opens the envelope to find a rich cardstock demanding RSVP for Will’s wedding. Harold had no idea that he was even engaged, but a small letter within is berating him for not responding to previous announcements. They must have been backed up after his stay abroad. For now, he sets it aside, setting up a new payphone on the first floor for ease of access. It rings only minutes after he plugs it in, taking down the number as John finds him among the toppled shelves. 

They return to the main room and Harold is taping up a picture of their new number when John speaks up, voice wary. 

“Is this real?” John is holding up the wedding invitation and Harold smiles.

“Yes, I believe so.”

“Then Nathan’s son is marrying our new number this weekend.”

Harold rushes forward, accepting the paper as John hands it over, checking the full name against his computer. “Of course he is.”

===

Root leans in as they dance, watching the best man at the head table while Harold can see Will dancing with his new wife. He’s almost thankful that she was the victim, rather than the perpetrator. It means a happier ending overall, at least for Will. They haven’t told him that she’s in danger, but Sameen is working the wait staff and John is a long lost relative of the bride, so they’re close enough to intervene if Will’s friend moves in. The man’s been obsessed with her since college and planned on pulling a Shakespeare-level murder suicide on the happiest day of her life. Harold will never understand selfish people.

“She says that Nathan would be proud of you. For all of it, even being here.”

“Thank you, Ms. Groves.”

“Anytime. How drunk do you think I would have to act for it to be acceptable if I drag a server onto the floor?”

“Please try to remember that you’re my plus-one and we are here to prevent a wedding disaster,” Harold says, emphasizing 'prevent'. 

She sighs, getting a flat negative from Sameen for her offer to dance. 

“Focus on the mission, Root. Man, this outfit is killing me,” she mutters.

“Not as much as waiting is killing him,” John says, appearing from the crowd as the best man stands, mouth opening to yell a heartfelt and dramatic monologue. A swift strike to the stomach takes him down without fuss, his head hitting the table as he slumps to his knees. John helps the unconscious body upright as the crowd reacts, asking questions about his well-being as Sameen makes excuses about the dangers of social drinking. Fusco is waiting outside with a warrant and Will is none the wiser, assured by Harold that his friend should be hungover but alive in the morning. He doesn’t mention the fact that the recovery will be in a prison cell. 

It takes a few hectic minutes to calm everyone down once the best man is carried out, but the dancing continues as Root returns to Harold’s side, gesturing for the bride and groom to start again. A familiar voice interrupts their own attempt to keep swaying.

“Can I cut in?” 

Harold lifts Root’s hand with a dip of the head, attempting to give his position to John. When she lets go, John takes her place, falling into step while Harold is still dazed by the switch. 

“I was talking to Root.”

“How unconventional,” Harold replies, blinking as the other hand settles on his back. John’s movements are slow, a gentle turn keeping with a pace that Harold can manage. “Why are you-”

“Should we stop?”

He does, just in case, keeping their form in place. Harold was watching over John’s shoulder, but he looks up now, enough to meet his eyes at close range. The room dims, leaving lit centerpieces and a few spots at the bar visible. Only soft lighting is available on the reception’s dance floor now, and the change creates a dizzy sensation in Harold’s gut. He can hear Root talking to Sameen, trying to find her in the crowd, and he thinks the music is still playing. John smells like the cologne Harold used to buy for him as part of the man in the suit ensemble. His bowtie is crooked.

Harold’s hand shifts closer to John’s neck, tracing the lapel before he tightens the accessory and returns it to the edge of the collar. 

“It’s fine,” Harold says, slack fingers curling to wrap his other hand around John’s, stopping his withdrawal. After a moment, they start to move again. John’s staring, but Harold does his best not to meet his eyes, focus drawn across the dance floor as Root gets a few looks for stumbling into the dancing crowd with a reluctant waitress. Sameen is unable to break the grip without causing a scene and she gives up, letting Root draw her into a clumsy waltz. 

“Damn you, Reese.” 

John’s exhale of amusement hits the side of Harold’s neck and he covers the shiver by turning too soon, forcing John to compensate with a light stumble before he steadies Harold and they fall into step again. 

“Do you regret inviting us now?” he asks Harold.

“Not quite yet.”

“We’ll have to try harder,” Root sighs, almost clipping the father of the bride as she sweeps her arm in a wide circle. John’s grin turns a bit devious and Harold gives him a look, ensuring that if he tries the same move, he’ll have to sleep with one eye open.

“Relax, Finch. I’m well-trained.” 

The look stays.

===

July 1st, 2016

They have a number who lives in the Hamptons, and as much as John hates the luxury of his surroundings, Harold catches him staring at the water more than once. After a few days, he finds a secluded lakeside cabin off the grid, one with an outdoor shooting range and the beach within ten miles in either direction. John won’t be able to do this forever, and even if they both thought they’d die within a year of starting their work, it’s turning out that they’ve become tough enough to possibly reach old age. 

John is given an address in the morning and curiosity leads him to a key under the mat. Harold is expecting the call when it arrives in the afternoon.

“Why are you trying to buy me a house, Finch?”

“I’m not. You’ve worked for long enough to afford it on your own.” Harold can’t pull up surveillance on the property, but he hears the woods through John’s microphone. “Would you like a bird-watching guide?”

“It’s beautiful, but I can’t accept. Sitting on a porch swing with a dog and a beer isn’t how this ends - not for me.”

Harold thinks about how certain they were that Samaritan would be the end, how every major player has been removed from their lives, one way or another. Decima is nothing without Greer, and it won't be strong enough to be a problem until they’re dead and gone. It’s not just them anymore, either. There are other teams, other people that could take over if the time comes. When the time comes.

“I’m giving you options, Mr. Reese. It’s your decision to make.”

Even knowing that and believing it, Harold is still disappointed when John sets the key down after returning in the evening. 

“Keep it," he says. "I might change my mind one day.” 

Harold walks toward the bookshelves, placing the key in a hollowed book with several others for safehouses that he hasn’t used yet.

“No, I don’t think you will. Don’t worry, I’m not offended.” When he turns, John is right behind him, which prompts him to avert his eyes to Bear in the corner, trying to keep the irritation at bay. He was wrong and it stings.

“I’m sure it would be perfect if I get to retire, but for now, my place is here.” He means the library, the job, the lifestyle. “With you and the numbers. Am I being fired anytime soon?”

“Not that I’m aware of.”

“Good.” John takes the book with gentle hands, closing the cover and sliding it back onto the shelf before walking away. “What did I miss?”

Harold pulls up the number he assigned to Sameen and Root, then the news article about the abandoned building floor that exploded in Manhattan. 

“If this is any indication of your co-workers’ definition of subtle, I’m extremely grateful you’ve decided to stay.” 

"A belated Fourth of July," John says, pulling up a chair as Harold tracks down security footage of the hour of time before the incident to watch and delete. As John leans in to watch him work, the bitter feeling in Harold's chest fades, replaced by appreciation for this moment and all the ones to come.


	10. Chapter 10

_ January 2012 _

_When Harold brings down the wheelchair, John leans out the open taxi door, frowning as he remembers the stairs to the library's second floor._

_“I can’t get into HQ with that.”_

_“Oh, you’re not staying here. I’ve found an apartment nearby and luckily for us, it has a functioning elevator.” Harold tucks the folded chair into the trunk of the car, climbing in before he tells the driver another address. John’s face twists in discomfort as they hit a pothole with little consideration for his plight and Harold digs into his coat to offer a bottle of pills - something he retrieved on the trip upstairs._

_“In my experience, any more than two will render you unconscious by the time we arrive.”_

_“You think of everything, Finch. How did you know I’d need heavy-duty recovery supplies one day?”_

_“I didn’t.” Harold looks out the window, all the black SUVs they pass feeling like reapers in the shadows. He sees a sniper on every rooftop._

_“Then I’m lucky we had similar needs. Sharing is caring,” John says, drawing a reluctant smile from Harold. He isn't as amused by their scrape with the CIA. “Don’t look so rattled, Finch. We both know the job offer came with a death certificate.”_

_“I didn’t realize it was already signed." He goes to back to his own form of surveillance, eyeing the cab driver with fresh doubt. After finding out that Carter turned on them, he doesn’t know who to trust, even for a task as simple as anonymous transport._

_“It’s been stamped and sealed since I joined the agency,” John reminds him. “We can only delay its delivery.”_

_“Which I intend to do with everything at my disposal, Mr. Reese, and that’s quite a lot as you’ve probably learned by now. Best not to fight me on it.”_

_John smiles, turning his head to glance out the rear window._

_“Whatever you say, Harold.”_

===

August 23rd, 2016

Harold kneels, listening to instructions as his hands go up in surrender. The guard currently pointing a gun at his face goes down with strangled yelp as Bear leaps from the shadows and latches onto his dominant arm, and hearty barking encourages the man to run in the opposite direction once he manages to tear himself free. Harold is grateful, proud of Bear for coming to the rescue without prompt, so he calls the animal back to him and scratches the fur behind its ears, pressing a kiss onto Bear’s forehead.

“Do I get one of those?” Root smiles as Harold looks up with wide eyes, caught in the act and watching her reload her gun. He gives a resigned exhale.

“Hardly, Ms. Groves. Unlike Bear, you’re able to communicate beyond a pat for good work.”

“Damn,” she tsks.

A pair of hands takes hold of his arms from behind and Harold is lifted to his feet, grateful for the assist that helps him get upright again. 

“Thank you, Mr. Reese.” 

When he turns, John has dipped his head. Root’s laugh echoes in the room as John looks up through his eyelashes at Harold, mouth twitching to keep a straight face. 

“If you’ve had your fun, we should probably leave before their reinforcements arrive.”

“Back exit is clear,” Sameen says through the earpiece. “I won’t even ask for a kiss.”

Harold rolls his eyes, calling for Bear to stay with him as he follows Root through the building, John taking the rear to cover them. They get as far as the sidewalk before the shooting starts, and with a rough shove, Harold stumbles in Root’s waiting arms. She pulls him out of sight as John’s right half moves like it was hit by an invisible wall. It’s possible that a car window shatters beside them but Harold’s eyes are stuck on his friend’s hand, watching it come away from the upper arm, tacky with blood.

“John.”

Looking away from the approaching forces, John’s gaze darts to Harold before he stares hard at Root, then ducks out of cover to fire again. 

“Get him out of here. Shaw?” 

Root has already used the broken car window and unlock the door, letting Bear hops into the backseat before forcing Harold inside, the raised armrests allowing him to slide straight into the passenger seat.

“They’re at your ten and two, I’ll stop the rest from getting outside,” Sameen offers. 

The device clicks off, John severing the connection as Harold scrambles for his phone. Root gets the hotwired car moving and swerves into a hard U-turn, reminding him to put on a seatbelt. He takes a second to breathe, shaking too hard to move his fingers properly, but the relative silence of the drive allows him to get into the security cameras around the building through his phone, empty screens with still bodies making him internally frantic.

Root frowns as the Machine gives her an update. 

“Sameen’s alive. She can’t see him.”

“I can,” Harold breathes, a dark and familiar shadow skirting the edge of the camera’s view. When he calls, John sounds winded but stable, and he finds himself pointing out the obvious. “You were shot.”

“Not my first time. I’ll survive.”

“Come home, please - if you won’t go to the hospital. I don’t want it to get infected.” There’s a moment where Harold just stares through the windshield, Root’s sharp turns slowing down as she understands that the danger has passed. John’s silence is suffocating.

“Business as usual. I’ll catch a ride back with Shaw.”

===

Harold realizes that it’s just a graze as he’s cleaning the edges, the bullet not hitting bone or essential tendons around the shoulder. He’s still careful to sterilize and wrap it, doing his best to hide the injury from an untrained eye. In their line of work, anyone John ends up fighting would use a bandaged area to get an advantage. 

Root’s heels against the floor interrupt his train of thought.

“New job, Harry. I’m taking Sameen for the weekend and I promise not to have her home before ten.”

“Call if you need backup,” John says, opening his eyes long enough to watch them leave. They close again as he lets his head relax against the arm of the couch, Bear’s muzzle resting over John’s shin as part of Harold’s attempt to keep him immobile. The man has a habit of disappearing when he’s most vulnerable.

“I apologize for endangering you yet again, Mr. Reese. My plan didn’t account for them finding us after our exit was already complete.”

“It’s my job, I don’t mind.”

“Your job is not to take a bullet for me.” Harold finishes taping the gauze, repacking the first aid kit as he speaks. “Or anyone else, as good as you seem to be at doing so. As for your job, saving numbers is the priority but I’d appreciate it if you didn’t cheapen your own life in the process. I should have said this years ago, but you are permanent for me. It's crucial you stop testing the boundaries of what one person can take before their body gives up in protest.”

Harold stands up, kit in hand as John takes a deep breath and tries to respond. 

“You can’t stop me from saving your life any more than I can stop you from trying to save mine. It’s not my fault that you have a higher success rate.”

Harold knows why he did it. It’s the same reason as always, at the very core of John’s being, his deepest desire to save the day. But it has to hurt. He looks into the trashcan that was placed beside the couch earlier, filled with bloody alcohol wipes and torn fabric. Scars make up most of John’s chest, half-covered under the left side of the ruined dress shirt that's more pink than white now. It’s the marks of the trade, but his face is still a little pale compared to its usual healthy tone, John’s closed eyelids flickering as he takes deep breaths to bring his adrenaline levels down.

Harold’s lips barely brush his temple and John smiles anyway, limbs relaxing while he takes in the quiet and familiar environment of the library.

===

September 21st, 2016

Harold gets their number on his way to the library, redirecting John to the woman’s school since he was already out. With a bit of background work, he sets him up as a substitute teacher, pulling security feeds of the interior to get John to the correct classroom.

Harold watches him intercept the number at her desk, chatting politely about tips for the first day. John keeps dropping jokes into the conversation about her potential to be the daughter of a Mafia don who’s now in hiding while waiting for her chance to strike back, but the number doesn’t catch on to the game he’s playing.

When she encourages John to loosen up a little fashion-wise to avoid pre-teen critics, she does notice the quality of his clothes, a keen eye picking up on its bespoke tailoring. At first, Harold is worried that John will have to spend the day deflecting advances, but she seems purely interested in the fabric and design rather than the person underneath. 

“I’m amazed you were able to afford this on a teacher’s salary," she says.

“I used to work on Wall Street,” John offers, and Harold sets up a minor position to lend credit to the cover in case their number goes looking.

“Did the crash from a few years ago scare you back into a teaching degree?” 

It’s the hesitance that draws Harold’s attention, and he looks at the monitor to see that John’s polite smile has faded into something pained. The expression is one Harold knows, and he has no doubt that the memory of losing Sameen that night is what created it. Guilt, mostly. Their number flounders under the silence. 

“I’m so sorry, that’s none of my business," she stammers.

“Tell her it made you re-evaluate your priorities.”

John woodenly repeats Harold’s excuse and the woman relaxes, returning to more comfortable topics as the first bell rings. With a low goodbye, he moves back into the hall.

“Mr. Reese, when I was attempting to track you down, I spoke to Mr. Han. Did he tell you?”

John nods.

“I forgot to pass a message to you but he said that sometimes, closed doors can be opened again.” Harold waits, watching as John slows down, stopping outside the entrance of his classroom as a few students make their way inside. “I apologize for waiting this long to bring it up.”

It does what Harold intended - dragging John out of the past - though he looks a little tired as the volume of noise inside the classroom picks up with the lack of a present authority figure. 

“We should go out for dinner tomorrow.”

Harold thinks about the probability of the job interfering, then replies as he sends the live security feeds to John’s phone and a message to the other half of the team. 

“Did you have somewhere specific in mind?”

“I thought you could pick.”

“I’m happy to,” Harold says, already searching places on his monitor as the bell rings again, signaling a one-minute warning. “You should call Detective Fusco, ask if he’d like to join us.” His computer chimes. “Ms. Groves says they’re available as well.”

John pauses again, hand on the door to pull it shut behind him. Then Harold sees him smile, eyes amused as he glances up at the security camera and ducks inside the room. 

“I’ll text him tonight.”

===

“What do you mean it didn’t work?”

John’s hand tightens around the wheel, his smile still in place as he continues to drive. 

“It went right over his head. Dinner to Finch is just another constant.”

“That’s amazing,” Zoe says, sitting back in the passenger seat with a serious blink of surprise. “Are you sure you’re not already married?”

“We have a lot of aliases. It’s safe to say I’ve lost track of a few and anything’s possible.”

“This is just sad, John.”

His smile fades and they relax for a while. She gestures to a slim building wedged between an office space and an antique store, getting out as John pulls over. He gets them inside as she watches the empty sidewalk. 

“Have you tried using the word ‘date’ yet?”

“This is Finch. I’m not saying that to his face.” John restrains the first guard and holds until he’s unconscious. Zoe ends up stepping over the body in exasperation.

“You know that’s what you’ll be doing, right? Unless you plan to jump straight to proposing.”

“It would save a lot of time,” John admits.

Zoe stares at him, holding steady as he points the gun over her shoulder. John moves to kick the dropped weapon away as the second downed guard clutches his kneecap and she looks up at the ceiling in disbelief before moving into the next room. 

“I can’t help you.”


	11. Chapter 11

October 9th, 2017

“Try to walk now.”

John steps off the small tailoring platform, moving to the end of the room before reaching for his waistband and shuffling back. “It’s still loose.”

“Have you lost weight in the past week? I measured this on Sunday,” Harold insists, watching him lift the pants so he’s not standing on the trouser cuffs. Harold tilts his head, the bunched fabric of the shirt inside the waistband making him reach out to untuck it. “It must have been caught up in the back.”

He has John hold the excess fabric above his abdomen and out of the way, picking up the soft tape measure and trying again, frustrated as it reads the same number it did five days ago. He tries to figure out where it’s caught, fingers tracing the flexible plastic around John’s waist until interrupted by the back of the ill-tailored pants. 

“Were you wearing these last time?” he asks.

“I don’t think I was standing here in my underwear.”

Harold huffs, muttering for him to lift his shirt in the back as well. The cloth is pulled tight as John gathers the extra fabric, Harold nudging the wool waistband of the ill-tailored pants down until he can feel the tape against skin, checking the number again and finding that it dropped an inch.

“See, that’s much better.” Harold looks up with a smile to thank John for his patience, only to find that the man’s already staring at him - more specifically, staring at the hand that Harold’s resting against John’s hip, keeping the pants just below the curve of his waist.

“Am I interrupting?” 

Harold feels the shirt pool over his wrists as its dropped, John’s weapon retrieved from the table beside them and aimed before they register that it’s just Fusco. He raises a bag of food in surrender. 

“Christ, you’re jumpy. I sent a message twenty minutes ago to tell you I was stopping by.”

“Finch is fussy about clothes,” John says, setting the gun aside as Harold releases his waist and unwinds the tape, scribbling the new length down for later. “We’ve been busy for the past hour.”

“Yeah, I can see that,” Fusco says, narrowing his eyes as John tucks the shirt back in. “No number today?”

“There was,” Harold informs him. “Ms. Groves assured me that the Machine wanted her to handle it alone. What did you bring, Detective?”

“It’s from that new Thai place that all the rookies won’t stop raving about.” Fusco takes a deep breath as he unpacks the bag, smiling in approval. “I ordered one of everything and used your card, figured the resident Buttercup could finish off anything we didn’t like.”

“Don’t let Shaw know you compared her to a Powerpuff Girl, Lionel. We’d never know where she hid your body.”

“Believe me, I don’t plan on telling her.”

Harold watches as they pick through the food, reading the written measurements again and realizing that John has returned to the numbers he was at before they discovered Samaritan - a healthy weight that he’d finally managed to put on sometime after Agent Snow and Kara were confirmed dead.

A smile finds him easily, lingering for the rest of the day.

===

November 16th, 2016

Harold is getting exhausted just watching them run back and forth, the game of chase turning into tackle football as Bear gets riled up. Fusco seems to share the sentiment, accepting the case file that Harold hands back and pushing off the blanket they set up. 

“Maybe we can order out next time? Skip the risk of a heart attack?”

Sameen takes a massive bite of her homemade sandwich and the Detective doesn’t look impressed. “Yeah, that was a dig at you. Your meal prep could use some practice, and not because you’re a lady. My kid makes healthier food than this.”

“Don’t you have somewhere to be, Lionel?”

“Thankfully not the hospital,” he says, heading toward John to say his farewells. Once he’s out of earshot, Sameen stares at Harold until he speaks.

“Too many pepperoncinis for my taste.”

Shaw glances at the two uneaten sandwiches, John’s whispered offer to pick up lunch on the way home becoming less of a secret by the second. 

“Root likes them.”

“She likes you, Ms. Shaw. There’s a difference.”

They don’t bring it up again, even once John returns - though Sameen gives him the side-eye during his approach. Harold commands Bear to lie down and his snout ends up on Harold’s leg, the weight not heavy enough to bother him. He runs his hand over Bear’s head, glad that the dog has a layer of fur and plenty of exercise to keep him warm. A picnic outside in November was not Harold’s best idea.

Bear’s body heat seeps into Harold’s palm, and he weaves his hands together in hopes that the warmth will spread. 

“May I?”

Harold turns to look up as John takes a seat, the back of his fingers pressed on the inside of his beanie to stretch it between his hands. 

“You’ll get cold.”

Sameen speaks around another bite of the sandwich, “You know, you’re really bad at just answering the question.”

“That’s because I’m a very pri-” Harold stops when she makes a disgruntled sound, turning back to John. “Yes, you may.”

John lifts it over Harold’s head, lowering the hat until it’s down far enough to cover his ears. The chill of the top of Harold’s ear brushes the bare skin just below the edge of his hairline as John lets the hat settle into place, and an ill-timed shiver disrupts John’s gloved hands in their attempt to get free. They land on either side of Harold’s neck, the rush of leathery warmth entering a strange conflict with his frozen face. It takes a moment for John to recover from surprise, then the touch retreats.

“You’re skin is like ice. Remind me to get you a scarf the next time we’re out.”

“I have plenty of warm accessories,” Harold assures him, thinking of the countless cold weather sets at home that he neglected to use. “It’s just a matter of whether I think to put them on before going out.”

John’s legs stretch out as he sits completely, his weight pressed against Harold’s side in a familiar gesture of reassurance. Sometimes, they both need a reminder that the other person is there. 

“Then I’ll have to get something that you won’t want to leave behind.”

===

Harold is rightfully scared to open the box on his table the next morning, the frilly ribbon on top as foreboding as it is obnoxious. It’s also his favorite color, which he knows isn’t a coincidence. Curiosity gets to him, and when he gives in, it’s not like he feared. The scarf is understated in dark tones with a matching set of earmuffs, both a popular and subtle pattern that will provide a natural way to blend into a crowd. It’s strangely wonderful.

Root makes sure to applaud the gift after he meets her for lunch, offering Harold the compliment of disappearing better than usual. 

“Looks cozy. Happy Anniversary.” 

“What do you mean?” he asks, smiling faintly.

“It’s been a year since the Machine defeated Samaritan. Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten already.”

His heart feels sluggish in his chest, the sudden reminder cutting sharply through his pleasant thoughts. It drags up everything that Harold’s refused to think about since the Machine told him that John was alive, and his mouth moves to give an empty response, the first thing that he can find to say while he’s so thoroughly overwhelmed.

“Lost track of time." Harold is chilled by wind over the rooftop and a haunting smile, hand shifting to hold itself over his abdomen before falling away. The waiter comes back with Harold’s card and his hands are trembling as he puts it away.

“I know the feeling," Root sighs. "Let’s not freeze out here longer than necessary; I need your help with a number.” 

He follows her out of the heated restaurant, Root starting to explain for the Machine as they get back onto the sidewalk. It’s snowing today and she’s turned them into the wind, so Harold remembers to breathe and ducks down into the gifted scarf, grateful for something that manages to keep out the cold.

===

_ August 2015 _

_“I thought we agreed to have this done by a store groomer after the fifth disaster.” As Harold opens his mouth to respond, Bear twists rapidly, shaking water and soap off himself in a futile attempt to end the bath early. “Hold on,” John chuckles, pulling off his suit jacket to roll up his shirt sleeves without interference. Harold grips Bear’s collar to keep him in the shallow tub as he attempts to escape._

_“We did agree, but I don’t like the idea of allowing someone else to care for him. He’s ours, we should just take responsibility.” He scrubs the dog’s side in small circles, noticing that John is slow to kneel, holding Bear in place but watching Harold. “What.”_

_“Are you sure we’re still talking about the dog?”_

_A few bubbles pop as Harold hands slow down and he leans back against his ankles, a soapy hand lifting the pitcher to start cleaning Bear’s fur of shampoo. John clearly doesn’t care about the mess or the state of his clothes; Harold sees him ruffle a hand behind Bear’s head, keeping him steady while maintaining an air of peace, like he’s happy. The abandoned subway is quiet beyond the splash of Bear’s uneasy paws in the shallow water._

_“It’s the thirty-fourth anniversary of my father’s death. The strangest part is how it makes me feel the same way, every year.”_

_His shaking hand almost drops the full pitcher, so Harold sets it down in the water to get his strength back. He pushes his other hand into Bear’s fur, clearing the layers of suds. When he looks up, John is still watching him, expression darkened with his own grief._

_“Yes,” John murmurs. “It’s strange.” The dog stirs between them and they both brace for him to shake but Bear settles down with an impatient shuffling. Harold feels the weight on his shoulders switch, replaced by his more recent concerns._

_“I’ve stopped taking Bear to the salon because it would be easy for Samaritan to trace. If they used it to get to us - if they hurt him, I would…” Harold’s not sure how to finish the sentence. Root and Shaw would find creative ways to say kill them, and John would say almost kill them, but it would mean that he’d certainly kill someone when Harold’s back was turned._

_“How much were you paying?”_

_Harold stares at him, then at their hands, making John’s mouth twitch as the silence lingers._

_“Finch.”_

_“Does it matter?”_

_“You were taking our dog to an animal salon and it’s important that I know how much you were willing to pay for them to splash some water over him.”_

_He fills the pitcher and dumps it over Bear’s back, hoping the extra weight encourages the dog to shake and interrupt the conversation. When nothing happens, Harold drops his gaze to the sudsy water. “It wasn’t just a bath, Mr. Reese. I don’t remember you volunteering to trim his nails.”_

_“Harold.”_

_“It was less than a hundred,” he starts, cut off by the sound of laughter. John clutches his own stomach, shoulders shaking with the force of his lungs seizing in his chest, and Harold reminds himself not to do anything that will encourage his friend, like smile or sigh. It’s a chain reaction, John’s release of Bear’s torso giving unspoken permission for the dog to offer a generous shake, and the rapid movement drenches them as John continues to laugh, harder than Harold has ever heard from him before._

_He’s had worse days._

===

“I wanted to invite you out to dinner this evening.”

“Sure, you can join me and Lionel. Shaw offered to pay for everyone after we mentioned her track record-”

“I’d prefer if it was just us this time.” Harold takes a deep breath as John stops moving on the other end. He straightens in his chair, closing his eyes so he can speak without distractions. “If you hadn’t done what you did last year, I wouldn’t be here today. And your courage to survive after that sacrifice makes this anniversary a happy occasion rather than another difficult one, so I want to celebrate that. If you’ll allow it.”

There are so few things to celebrate in their line of work.

“Sounds nice, Finch. Just promise me there won’t be any rooftops involved.”

“You have my word,” Harold says, a breathy laugh escaping as he stands. He keeps the call on speakerphone as he winds the new scarf around his throat, leaning forward to make sure John hears him. “Meet me at the Library?”

“Already on my way.”

===

December 4th, 2016

The Machine watches the flow of traffic through the city, monitoring everything from the billboards to the smartwatches on people’s wrists, enjoying the shuffle of activity as everyone goes about their business. It’s a cold morning, meant for extra layers and hot drinks.

She’s arranging things even now, finding that everything has lined up. The earpieces are malfunctioning, requiring Harold’s attention before they can get started for the day. A phone has been left behind, an error that she could only hope for after remaining patient, biding her time. Today’s number is delivered to Root at a precise time, refraining from giving away details that would eliminate the need for recon. Advertisements across the city provide subtle reminders, encouraging receptive people to head exactly where she wants them to be. While she’s not busy helping her assets save people, the Machine enjoys little tests, learning more about humanity as time goes on. 

People are complicated, Team Machine even more so, but she’s come to find that some things don’t require an omniscient eye to see.

The café is surprised by the morning rush, a recently opened venture that wasn’t sure word of mouth would do them much good. There’s a line out the door, and the major chain across the way experiences a strange malfunction with their high-tech coffee machines, forced to close for a few hours while they get it fixed. 

She watches someone step into line, surveying the world around them as they decide to wait, glancing up at the security camera with a knowing smile. But he doesn’t know everything.

===

Root is already at the computer as Harold shows up, her distracted voice greeting him as she continues to type. Harold hangs up his hat, surprised when the weight of his jacket is lifted off his shoulders until he glances behind himself to find John, shaking his arms free as Bear trots past to find Sameen.

“You’re early, Mr. Reese.”

John shrugs, hanging up their coats while Harold unwraps his scarf. “I don’t want to jinx it again, but I felt good today.”

Root moves to the printer, taping up a picture as Harold takes his seat back. 

“She gave me his number but won’t tell me what it’s for. You don’t know frustrating until your own voice refuses to cooperate with you.”

“I can imagine the difficulty,” Harold says. They talk possibilities for a while, pulling up information on the number’s family and social connections. Sameen leaves to start tailing the number as Harold sets up a background that will allow John closer access to the celebrity, the mildly famous number presenting a challenge in terms of anonymous assistance.

“John, can you retrieve the blank IDs from the poetry section?” He looks up, sees Root crossing the room to fulfill his request.

“He went for breakfast, Harry. You didn’t notice?”

“That was an hour ago; I thought he would have returned by now.” Harold is already dialing as Root reassures him and sets down the requested box. There’s a faint ringing sound and Harold follows it to the couch, realizing that it must have fallen out of John’s pocket at some point - or he left it behind. His earpiece is fixed but it remains on the desk, only just reprogrammed by Harold.

“Can she see him?”

Root recognizes the device in Harold’s hand, staring out the window as the Machine relays what she knows. 

“He entered a dead zone about ten minutes ago.” 

Harold takes a deep breath, walking back to the computer as his heart and stomach fight between going up to his throat or down to his shoes. He pulls up the information she’s giving, staring at the last time stamp with still hands. 

“I’ll go be eyes and ears, see what I can find. I’m sure it’s just contagious paranoia that’s keeping him in the dark. He’s a lot like you with a little less experience.”

“Having the means matters more than experience, Ms. Groves. Anyone can disappear with the right resources.” Harold remembers the money stashed in John's old apartment, wonders if he found reason to use it. Her hand rests against his forearm, and Harold realizes that he’s trying to access information that isn’t there, trying to predict the outcome of situations without the facts. He clears his throat, turning off the screen to avoid temptation as she pulls away. “Call me if you find anything.”

Root nods, and Harold is left in the quiet library, an update from Sameen letting him know that 10 minutes have passed and there’s no news from the Machine. He gets antsy, knowing that the best place to be is here - but he finds himself putting the jacket back on, prepared to go search by himself. Maybe he should take Bear.

“Finch?” 

He turns, the ache in his spine flooding away until he’s left with a dazed relief, watching John shuffle the items in his hand to hold out a to-go cup that smells like tea. 

“Sorry about the wait, there’s a new bakery across town that I thought you would like but their line was ridiculous. Which might not have been worth it-” John mentions with a frown, glancing at the greasy bag in his left hand as he stops beside Harold in the hallway. "Not even sure the food’s still warm at this point.”

Harold stares at him, hand absently rising to tap against his earpiece. “I’ve found him, thank you, Ms. Groves.”

“I told you not to worry so much. We took care of Samaritan and Decima. We’re safe, Harry.” 

His finger taps the device to cut off the call and John holds out the cup again, waiting for Harold to take it. 

Harold’s hand moves fast enough that he thinks John will stop him on instinct, but it reaches its destination uninterrupted. His grip doesn’t have to pull, just holding tight to the back of John’s neck as the man leans in, a long press of lips and everything else drawing itself out as he steps in closer. The combined sound of the take-out bag and two full cups hitting the floor makes Harold jump, staring down at the spilled liquid that splashed back up as it seeps into John’s trouser cuff.

“That’s going to-”

“Don’t care,” John breathes, his emptied hands gripping either side of Harold’s jacket at the waist, pushing forward until they bump into a wall and the kiss breaks again. After a moment of thought, Harold glances down at John’s collar, pleased to find that it’s already open. John makes a curious sound when he doesn’t say anything. “Are you okay?”

He tilts his head up until the back of it rests against the wall, closing his eyes and waiting. This kiss doesn’t hold back with the urgency of the feeling behind it but John’s grip is less frantic, embracing Harold like he’s grateful for the permission to do so. 

It’s being held as though he’s cherished. 

Harold’s surrounded by the heat of John and the space between them while his hand moves up, catching on short strands when his fingers curl into a loose fist. There’s the silence of bliss, then Harold remembers the question, a laugh bubbling up from his throat until John leans back, watching with bright eyes as the sound escapes. Harold takes a deep breath, still smiling as he meets John’s gaze. 

“Just happy, Mr. Reese. Remarkably happy.”

“Then I’m doing my job.” 

There’s the rustle of a paper bag and John turns enough for Harold to see past him, Bear sniffing the soaked food before moving on to smell the coffee. They both rush to intervene, sending him away from the mess and trying to clean up. John returns with paper towels and listens as he’s lectured for the impulsive decision to abandon the breakfast he waited so long for.

“Harold.” John has crouched in front of him and he’s holding the empty cup of tea, picking at the edge with his thumb. “Thank you.” _For not giving up on me. For coming back to me. For trusting me. For waiting._

After a beat of mutual understanding, Harold’s face relaxes in surprise like he’s had an epiphany. “You invited me to dinner as a date.”

“Didn’t even register, huh?” John smiles as Harold flounders for an apology. "Forget it," John says, taking the extra paper towels from Harold before holding the emptied hand. He raises it to his lips, pressing a chaste kiss to Harold's knuckles before running his thumb along them and clasping tighter. "We're here now, right?"

"Yes, Mr. Reese." Harold returns the smile, grateful that they finally seem to be on the same page. "I'd say we are."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know this chapter took a while, but it was insanely difficult to make sure it ended up as I intended. The next chapter will be the last one, a sort of epilogue. Thank you to everyone who left kudos and comments, you kept me writing. Please continue to let me know what you think, writers live off feedback!


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